Dream 261113 — The Hunger Color
A door full of sand, a forbidden book, and onion rings.
We go to a meeting in Russia. No car. No money. Grey and dusty. Is this Chernobyl?
I manage to get a car I found running. I have to hide it (and us) in an old concrete plant.
The first place I find, we access by taking an elevator. Sarah Tvedt is there, bitchily snooping. She doesn't want us to have a car. She wants us to suffer like she does.
Bitch.
I hide it deeper, under this iris thing. It's cool, like the Batcave. Rusty and industrial.
Now that I have a car, I go out adventuring.
I find a bookstore or library. The sign is garbled, like it was designed by the same AI that made spaghetti-eating Will Smith.
It's an upstairs-downstairs situation. Upstairs, you sit, eat, and read your books. I notice everyone has big, glorious stacks of books, but I only have my one.
I ask another patron, and she tells me there is another level, but it's only for Chinese.
“Not for you,” she says, eating pizza and gesturing at her eyes.
I go down the stairs.
It's yellow and wood, with shag carpet, like the '70s.
The clerks downstairs are helping another customer, and I approach the door in the small room as if I belong there.
When I turn the handle, it's firm and refuses to turn. I try to turn it with my mind, visualizing the parts inside the lock, but all I can see are rocks and sand.
The clerk gets my attention and tells me the door is for employees only.
I ask for a different color book, and she says I cannot read it.
And I tell her how hungry I am.
“You want onion rings?” she asks.
I answer in the affirmative.
Then a little man comes out and gives me the biggest plate of onion rings I've ever seen.
They are glistening and warm, fresh out of the fryer.
As I carry them up the stairs, I'm back in the garage of the concrete plant where the car is stored.
Then I wake up to the sun making the room glow a golden yellow.