a human. for now.
I feel so far away when I dream. Like another dimension with superpowers. But I come back. I always come back. And when I do I feel as though I’m returning from a long vacation in a far away land. But not a strange land. It feels as much as home as my own body, sometimes more.I would like to live like in my dreams. Not worried about being productive and making the most of time. Waste time. Waste all the time in the world. Even I can do that. Better to do that. I am not a writer. That would be silly. I’m a creator. I like to make things exist that maybe previously didn’t exist. For my own entertainment clearly. I create things that are less than perfect that no one cares about. The world also needs these things.
Inside the Live Cafe. The Hairless Barista yelled out, “Dreamland Brew!”
She slammed a mug on the counter and dropped a flaming match inside. Hundreds of moths appeared and flew in the mug. They fluttered about and disappeared. In their place was a full cup of Dreamland Brew.
One stray moth flew toward the cellar door. Then through a crack in the opening.
“Hey, where you going?”
The Hairless Barista followed the moth down into the cellar. The moth descended another flight of stairs.
It descended another flight of stairs. This one more narrow.
Again another flight of stairs. Again more narrow.
The Hairless Barista lost count of how many flights of stairs she chased the moth down. Each one more narrow than the last.
The moth stopped and the Hairless Barista found herself in a room full of Faceless Workers pounding away at typewriters . They didn’t seem to notice her presence. Or if they did they didn’t care. One of the Faceless Workers tore the paper out of the typewriter, folded it neatly and stood up. He walked into an adjacent room with twenty, maybe thirty, flower pots sitting on work tables.
The Hairless Barista followed him. She watched the Faceless Worker bury the folded up paper deep into the soil of a seemingly random flower pot.
He walked past her.
Back to his workstation.
Loaded another piece of paper.
And pounded on his typewriter.