The mountain is made of silk, colourful and patched together like a giant circus tarpaulin. The crimson, emerald, rose-pink and gold fabrics are shining in the late afternoon sunshine, and we are perched on the edge of the cave taking heroin.
The cave is near the top of the silk mountain. The insides are made of pillows, and they too are patch worked. People are inside, happily staring at the ceiling as they empty needle after needle into their arms. These ones are the ones that we call the starers. They have a tendency to leave the earth each time the holy substance is transported through their veins. It is nice to watch them, peaceful as they are, from our perch.
We stand on a small ledge outside the entrance of our cave. We are in a line, holding onto the fabric so as not to fall. The ledge is not wide enough for a foot to sit comfortably. We know that if we fall, we will not be able to return. So we cling to the fabric, hoping that we will not slip.
The heroin makes us light headed, and we are soon spinning. It makes your hands sweat, and soon holding on is no longer an option. We look down, and the thorns that usually sit at the bottom of the mountain menacingly are smiling up at us, promising peace and warmth. So we forget about the comfort of our cushioned hiding-hole, and slide down the silk.
The wind whips past as we glide over the colours, laughing and singing for what seems like an eternity. And the substance starts to wear off, and suddenly we can see the thorns have fooled us, and we are once again falling towards their greedy spines.
We put up our arms and flip onto our stomachs, grasping desperately at the silk. And eventually we gain purchase, and are able to direct ourselves to the right of the vicious plants. We collide at the bottom of the mountain in a heap, and tears roll from our eyes as bellows of laughter escape from deep within our bellies.
And then the crow swoops down at us, and we all go running. My hands are over my head, and I can feel the air rush past as the crow, now a cockatoo, dips behind me. And then I see the kitchen, and I run inside.
It is open air, and a girl with brown hair is making a beetroot salad. I can smell brownies, and she tells me that they are baking in the oven without my having to ask. The cockatoo follows me into the kitchen, and swoops through a door into an open air dining room where it transforms into a young man with white blonde hair.
He runs into the kitchen, pushing everything off the kitchen island, devastating the brownies that have just been removed from the oven. He picks up the knife that was being used to cut the beetroot and swings it around wildly. The girl and I stand together, asking him to calm down, saying that we will not hurt him, but he will not stop ruining the room.
And then I start to sing, and slowly the wildness leaves his eyes. The girl starts to soften at the same time that the cockatoo-man drops the knife. And then they are on the floor, asleep, and I am singing a lullaby so that they will not wake up.
