The False Freedom of the Pecking Order

I’m looking after my Gran’s house. It’s a large bungalow. She has three birds in a small cage. They seem happy, and have plentiful food. They squabble over a dead moth. Greed and the need to maintain a pecking order. I want to free them, to let them fly about inside the house, at least. I’m worried that they’ll escape out of a window. I walk through the house, making it safe for them. One room opens up, and becomes a huge, Chinese style hall. Some doors here I cannot close. Others belong to other people. A great door opens, and uniformed Chinese workers skateboard downhill across the hall, it’s floor now a roadway. I follow them, without a board, hovering just above the surface, atomising it as I go, leaving a blue wake behind me. 
At the bottom, I pull over by the curb. I walk back, to a furniture store. In a white, oval tube, a three piece suite, like something from the Love Boat, is stored. I scramble inside the tube, sliding over the furniture and out of the other side. I see another tube, the same furniture. I slide through again. This repeats and repeats, like an endless symbolic rebirth. Finally, I land in a furniture shop, surprising the owner, and his customer. 
Back in my Gran’s house, the lights won’t turn on. I open heavy curtains. It’s daytime outside. The birds are happy in the sunlight, in the tiny cage of their greedy, limited horizons. 


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