Friday, July 08, 2011

1532 : Dreams are made of chinks

As part of a subsequent interrogation the old man was asked, "so what exactly do you dream of?".
Wrinkles which were already frayed broke into a frown, struggling to see how he could try and convert, for the sake of this answer, what he thought were essentially "nightmares" into a set of "dreams".
Should he for example tell them that he dreamt of the city, his city being gnawed and constantly rattling from within, almost akin to a victim of bipolar disorder, where the gay and the homophobic were two shades of the same color...
....or should he tell them that he imagined death to be white and colorless, bereft of all embellishment, versus the pale blue it usually seemed to be draped in.....
.....or should he reveal that he was not a human "bomb", that they were accusing him of being, at least not someone or thing that gets blown away in an instant, he was instead a connoisseur of slow atrophy and was sure that as they started hearing his deliberate and slow soliloquy, their inner souls would fester, decay and degenerate....
He started by telling them one word : "AMEN"

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