March 11th, 2003


push pulk me in close look into my eyes smile at me when you stick in the knife

Everyone is asleep. The temperature is five degrees centigrade outside. The humidity is low and the pressure is one thousand and six millibars.

Somewhere in Reigate, in a smart house by the railway track, someone is dreaming. Pupils erratically jerk beneath sealed eyelids, and the mind conjures an image of a boy, gelled hair dishevelled and black shirt no longer crisp but creased and crumpled. He is sprawled on the floor in an untidy mass of mattresses, duvets and pink pillows.

For just a moment, the boy wakes; he doesn't need to sit up, but his eyes slowly open and he gingerly glances around as though he is scared of what he may no longer see. As though he feared he were still asleep. While the dream carries on, the boy is content with his view, happy within himself. He hugs his arms around his chest, and closes his eyes again - he doesn't want to move, and only lies awake and wallows joyously in his thoughts. The boy rests there, still warmly satisfied after looking round - he needs nothing more. He's just so glad to be amongst these wonderful people, so happy he had the chance to experience this, to feel this loved. He daren't straighten out his clothes nor push his hair to the side, but just feels so fortunate to have lived this moment.

And still, the dream is dreamt, silently projecting this boy in someone's mind. And as we're on this voyeuristic journey, the dream camera zooms out. Its view backs upward out of the ceiling, drops into soft focus then fades to black. It's still five degrees outside. The pressure remains unchanged. The boy is still somewhere, thinking how lucky he is. And the dream goes on, and I am the dreamer. I don't have to open my eyes. For I know just how the boy feels.

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pull me in close look into my eyes smile at me when you stick in the knife.