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The nightmare of the little girl's toybox

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Oh, gardens, gardens! Oh sleepy cinema headquarters, where you can stay and watch the movie from the box. 

Oh blimey! It all used to be so simple! The terrible story of the man with the oxen axes was always that one which put us all to sleep so soon. And at this early in the morning you couldn't blame the pastor for his best attempt to come up with a distraction, otherwise the book franchise might seem all the more unpalatable. And blimey, blimey! The upper echelons of the box-rooms at which many fuckers used to stay the night and wonder why they had so happy a group of friends, well, they were cosy enough, to sleep and read, and read through your comings and goings of the prior years, and all the hateful nastiness that they had brought. 

Blimey, blimey, blimey! Did the public readings of the tomes of many classical scholars give you the feeling that things were going so well, until that time that you could realise you yourself had written a classic. It must have been so difficult to have had to rekindle the times you had been through. And not only having to have gone through the times you went through, but actually having gone through the times you went through! Those were the worst things. But it was never so pleasant actually, and trust was a big issue, make no mistake, and there were the friends and the friends within the night, and the nightmares with friends in them. I don't know why I have to be so scared of these people. However, they are scary when you put it all into context. 

We start, in case you haven't realised, in a box room above a cinema, and I am sleeping. Well, I may or may not be sleeping, but in any case, I may or may not have already had a little nap, or have been watching a film, in the cinema, and one gets the impression that the film was The Pink Panther. I'm pretty sure Maddie was there. Nevertheless, I myself certainly was, and I was reading all the classic books, the novels, the memoirs from my mattress in that upper room, and smoking roll-ups, and it was all so very interesting. 

I think one of the books was by a Frenchman, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, but probably not him after all, or merely Albert Camus. And yet, his book, The Outsider, well it was indeed my own book, and I myself was rather impressed with it, not that it mattered. For the only thing inherent in anything, and that means in anything whatsoever, is the meaning beneath. Whereas I do not know the meaning beneath these nightmares, I do know that a book written in the style of a hapless warrior of the mind would become a classic like unto those which have been written by Frenchmen, or even that other writer, the one who wrote A Clockwork Orange. So that would be a good thing. You could instantly grasp the style, and there I was reading away and writing away in the box room of a cinema, trying sleep and yet smoking roll-ups. 

While all this was happening, and the books lay strewn across the floor in front of a television no less, I received a knock upon the door, and said door opened and it was a long old creaking event, and very ominous, I can tell you. But I tell you this now, I have never been so scared to have been the recipient and receiver of that young man we all know, Aaron, who appeared there fresh from fucking his girlfriend down the hall. It was a strange thing indeed, and, I suppose to keep from being a bore to his new squeeze, he himself was asking, by way of implication, at the chances of perhaps having a roll up. I must add, and it certainly pains me to do so, that at first I was not best inclined to honour this request. Yet the fear that fell off the ceiling, and through his slight and slightly boxer like young frame, came into my confused and schizophrenic head, and I relented and said, "Yes, of course, you may help yourself!" The young man laughed, as though he knew he would always get what he wanted, and laughed also because he had just been fucking his girlfriend down the hall, and I had not been. And it was a scary, scary thing. 

What am I so afraid of, I wonder? I think what it is, perhaps, is the feeling that I myself am missing in action. That is, when all the war rages on around, my worst fear is that I myself and cosied up at the fireplace reading Albert Camus. But funnily enough, there is something that scares more than that. While there are things that have meaning and things that don't, the type of thing that I know has meaning, that is, the other-worldy essences of these little instances of the type of things that go in in my head whilst I'm asleep, they show that there is such a depth of meaning that the whole thing seems a little to vast. And I am scared of this vast meaningful chasm, and worry about the zombies and ghosts that live in the cracks of the things which I am unaware. That is what I am so afraid of. 

Then, to make things worse, another scary thing came from the shadows, merely to scare the pants off me. It was Charlie, who had been down the stairs in another room fucking his girlfriend, and he had come up to see me to ask me for a roll up! What it was to this dual instance of a repetitive circumstance that perturbed me so much I daresay I shall never know. Yet ask me he did, and reply I did, and gave him access to all manner of my tobacco stores. Even though it transpired that the main theme of the dream was whether or not I could keep the attention of a reader in books, it seem that a secondary one would uphold the first, and that secondary one was whether I had enough roll-ups to go round. Yet it transpired that, whereas I myself had thought I was a good writer, and had written all these classic tomes which were upheld in their capacity for quality by a footnote from an old college buddy John-Paul Smiley, the least happy outcome to our little adventure was that one was being exposed in the sense of not being a good writer at all!! So there was Charlie in his playful and meaningful capacity, and even though I love Charlie, there was an undercurrent of thought, that went, "You are a homosexual, Daniel!" or some such other nonsense like that. They all knew it. Anyway, thus run the undertones of a dream like this. 

Then there was a child, and the child was talking to me, and I to her, and she looked Chinese, or like an Elon Musk type figure. I guess you can circumscribe these thoughts when they are you most private, for she was more like a Dean Alexandrou than Elon Musk, yet she had a wisdom, and she spoke and I wish I knew what it was she was saying. Therein lies the tale! 

Therein lies the tale of the nightmare of the little girls toybox. 



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