Death Hotel

A mosquito bit me on the pinky finger. The side of my hand swelled up and turned purple.

A mosquito bit me on the back of the neck. I fell paralysed onto my knees and tumbled into the pit.

A mosquito bit me on the thigh and sucked my leg to a shrivelled stump. A whirlwind of black dust rose up in the forest. A bear jumped on top of me and fought me to the ground.

A mosquito bit me on the cheek and the whole left side of my face caved in. A napalm fire roared along the treeline. Blind civilians ran from their homes and fell straight into the foetid pit.

I've been having a recurring dream about a bat with blood in its mouth.

Posted by philip at 12:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I dreamed I was flying through space inside a guided missile (not like that’s a phallic symbol or anything). My point-of-view was from the nose cone of the missile as it flew down through the Earth's atmosphere, down to Montreal, and roared straight down Murray Street.

The streets and the sidewalks, the cars, every surface was covered with snow. But instead of being normal snow it was topped off with a thick orange crust, like a creamsicle. Everything, everywhere was orange.

A bunch of ripples in the surface had risen up into shapes resembling evil orange snowmen. These creatures were tall, vaguely anthropomorphic shapes that maintained a seamless connection to the ground.

A bunch of these creamsicle soldiers were standing in a parking lot as if they were guarding a warehouse. The missile flew straight up to the biggest one of the group and rammed right into it.

A hatch in the missile popped open and I climbed out.

I walked around in the parking lot for a while. My heavy boots left footprints in the creamsicle surface.

Posted by philip at 11:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In my dream, purple office towers were throwing long sunset shadows over the plaza.

They were out to get me so I was on the run. I engaged the enemy where and when I could, like some kind of futuristic urban guerrilla.

I leaned against the building and pressed my forehead against the glass wall. In an instant I projected myself inside. I ran like a maniac, down through corridors, stairwells, elevator shafts. Within a fraction of a second I arrived inside the central control room.

I knew I only had time for one shot. I aimed my gun at the heart of the machine and nearly hit it. Then security clamped down and I had to unplug.

Back out on the street, I could tell right away I'd done some damage to the programme.

Citizens throughout the downtown continued to talk and laugh as usual. But they were all stuck walking around and around in little circles, as though they each had one foot nailed to the ground.

I remember thinking: It's not pretty, but it's war.

Posted by philip at 10:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)