Egg Rave Revolution 

I’m in Greece. I think the place is called “paradise” in Greek I watch a movie on a screen in the street. It is called two points, or something like that, and has the same story as a dream I just had before this one. The title sequence involves two white triangles on a black background. 
In both, there is a block of holiday flats. You can access the beach by climbing onto the penthouse balcony, and carefully climbing down. The guy living in the penthouse doesn’t like this, and blocks all access. He asks the names of people on the beach, to send them a bill for access. He wears on his head two triangles of cheese. I speak to a tall, Czech, anti Semitic clown narrator. He tells me Jews stopped him playing music. He’s a very tall racist. He shows me where he used to play. A canteen. The owner is restricting food to sausages and fried eggs. A man queueing is dressed in huge pieces of bread. I stab the owner with a fork. He is egg. I stab his friends he is also egg. Cooked yellow runny yolk leaks out of the puncture wounds. I walk on the water of a swimming pool, listening to a rave egg song. Underwater, pugs in cones of shame, look up at me as eggs fly in formation. A friend joins me and we syncopate egg lyrics. He guides me to a booth, where a smart young man waits. He is my choice to replace the leader. I pass the egg song onto him. 
By the pool, the owner relaxed. His chain bigger than mine. I jump on him, asking what he does. What job. Where his money comes from. He is confused. He tells me he is making a fish hook. The police arrive. They arrest the owner. By now everyone is shouting at him as though he’s a benefit scrounger, demonised as a parasite, which, as a landlord, he is. 
Back at the movie, I try hard to remember the name of the film, and the place. Psiparas? A woman I thought was a poster talks to me, trying to sell me belly dance CDs. 
I pass people from work on holiday. All wear suits. I’m underdressed. I tell them about the film. They tell me about crazy comments that’ve been posted in my blog. This blog. I head back to my hotel. Techs from a TV company carry in power supplies. We talk about making films from dreams. They say it’d need more bells and whistles. I disagree. They haven’t read Eugene Ionesco or seen Last Year in Marienbad. 


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