Construction of the dream machine commenced that evening when most had their selves tucked away, working shifts or simply remodelling their bodies. Meanwhile I was synchronising my clocks. I thought I had stumbled across a method through a social network.
Was it really so much like coming across a bird’s nest, (which incidentally I had included in the compendium) and sometime later, recalling all the eggs and numbers well after the inhabitants had flown?
Nevertheless it was there, the dream machine, and every cycle, shadows would be projected by my form against the walls- an inverted sundial.
It was a factory of course, with a necessary output.
How many images can be built, how does my fertility stack up this year. How many…
No time to wonder. Now is the ripening as the eggs begin to hatch, so I must sweat into the night, incubating them within the crook between my finger and eye before the shells crack.
Character limits, my nestlings. I don’t stop to sharpen a nib any longer, just jut another slug of graphite in the slot and scrape away, letter by letter, through the spectral colours of my moods until what, until a crescendo? Wait.
Ok now this technique is more like the whisker on the dragon. If it breathes fire what are its whiskers made of? The bones of dead eyed dears?
Baibai for now!