if one could choose their dreams, what would they be? Tweet

I was embracing a rather large and very friendly bird. It was warm and quiet and smelling inviting, like a young chicken. The most amazing thing happened then: a bird no larger than a butterfly, and just as fluttering as one, landed on my arm, then hopped next to the large bird and took cover under its right wing. I felt bliss holding the two of them together, and showing him my treasure without moving much.

I was in an open plan room, watching the chief thief give his pack an encouraging speech. Then he proceeded to chopping off small bits of their bodies, as chosen by their owners: half a toe here, half an earlobe there. No one seemed sedated, no one cried. The silence was only spiced by his butcher knife cracking their bones open. Then I was in the street, at a crossroads, in the sun. Watching them again, bandaged delicately, drinking their minds over a very becoming picnic blanket. They were young, beautiful, and well dressed. Nothing like I had imagined thieves. And I was reporting on their rituals.

I was standing on a barge moving slowly, as they do, through the most spectacular landscape, at dusk. As always, slightly pained on how to hold my camera steady enough while smoking, and slightly troubled by some mosquitoes while not having the time to put on insect repellent because the light was fading and I had to snap all those wonders. My family was on board, and we were heading towards the hill house of some aunt or uncle. On which side of the family? Where they on board, as well? I was too focused on the views to recall. The water was covered in tall thin stems of huge light pink and light green flowers that seemed fluorescent in the sunset rays. On both sides the forest was all in bloom with buoying fragrances and heavy inflorescence of all manner of color. I kept pointing and shooting hungry for proofs of heaven.

And each time I woke up with a vibrant image that faded only a little to this day.