She put her head down on the pillow and nodded off to sleep, leaving behind the black and white world for a kaleidoscopic rainbow awash in new colours, and then she found herself running.

Eevee’s ran from her fair share of hard knocks. She settled in at a pub working as a pushover, waiting tables nightly. A boy was her neighbour and inside this dream he was a handsome meanie, who would chase girls across the floating rocks outside their apartment building in Notting Hill.

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

Eevee just kept on running across imagination, never looking sideways, just ahead at the sun’s face, which looked like Shaq chewing a pineapple.

Eevee took her smoke breaks at the sandy beach, where a silly lad in overalls would hawk electronics with a Hawaiian Shirt Bill Murray.

Eevee was 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 drop fall off the hanging cliff.

Dreams tend to go like that, she thought. They never give you room to breathe.