Dreamland Express, all aboard.

You put your head down on the pillow and nod off to slumberland, where all notions hail from fluffy contexts, leaving the black and white world behind. ENTER into a kaleidoscopic rainbow awash in new colours and old shapes, spiral spiral, until you forgot where you just were. Now you run.

This was a typical dream in Eevee’s life, who had her fair share of hard knocks. A Sydney girl, she kidnapped a boy from home to leave for Europe with it, where she settled in at a pub working as a pushover, waiting tables nightly, trying for the ransom daily. The boy was her neighbour and inside this dream he was a big green meanie, chasing Ee across the floating rocks spasming with square waves and filtering out bad juju.

“C’mon, it’ll be OK,” the meanie said. “Like it’s another Tuesday and I got a kettle on for ya.”

But Ee just kept on running across imagination, never looking sideways, just ahead at the sun’s face, which looked like Shaq chewing a pineapple while looking at Ee’s friend Smith, a silly lad in overalls who was dreaming about buying electronics from Hawaiian Shirt Bill Murray, workin’ a beach shack down in Manly. He was rude that day to Bill Murray, so Ee yelled “You stupid idiot, come here,” as she jumped across dreams. But as Smith turned up to look above him, he didn’t see anyone up in the sky, nor would he, only birds and Cadillacs up there.

In the next dream, the meanie was gone and Ee was all alone in a vast space of burping sponges. As she looked around, there was a small cat-o-dile peering at her from above the nightmare foam permeating the Below. “Someone pinch me, I think I’m done,” she said. But she’s not anywhere near done, not until she makes it to the rapid drop fall off the bottom of the faraway hanging cliff. Dreams tend to go like that, she thought. They never end, they just keep going on with or without you. Aye.

Oz

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