Centrifugal Farce, Pt 2a (also uneditted)

LINKBEING: Facet Chapter 8
Centrifugal Farce
Part 2a: After hours of writing about everything he had seen during his days as an observer in the Multiverse, the author fell into a deep and restful sleep, the first he’d had since his last days at home before that fateful bus trip brought him to the Centrifuge and back to tell the tale.

His dreams were first invaded by images of Miranda and Byrke having sexual relations in a phone booth in the bus station, and next finding himself in Byrkes place, and thus, in Miranda’s very personal space.An explosion rocked the phone booth, which was beginning to look like the inside of a wardrobe closet, and as Miranda whispered a thankyou, the light blinked out, leaving the author in a dark closet, naked and now very alone, as Miranda had definitely ceased to exist on the tip of the author’s diminishing focus of attention.

He pushed open the closet doors and found the bus station had been grown over with jungle vegetation, the buses long since embarked on journeys they apparently had never returned from.
Only one clear path could made through the foliage, which the author noted was all made from latex rubber and had prop serial numbers stamped in places that almost entirely failed to be inconspicuously covered by other bits of prop foliage madly attempting to cleverly hide thier attendant serial numbers as well.

The author was so engrossed in this observation that when he came to his wits, he found himself to be wearing a white outfit that was suitably impressive without being of one style or another, and in fact changing frequently and without notice. The Author did notice a keen-looking pen clipped to his lapel at all times, though.

The path lead from the overgrown remains of the bus station, which at some point had ceased to be covered in asphalt and was now covered in mud that somehow failed to get on his white outfit. He felt it important to note that the outfit was still with him, though he had been equally moved to not eat one point later on down the path that the trouser pants part of his outfit had at one point disappeared completely whilst he was walking past what sounded like a babbling brook filles with nubile young maidens skinny-sipping theirin, leaving our hero with something of an embarrassing bias in his focus of attention. Thsi situation was only amelorated when the pants had elected to return after a suitably humiliating period of what passed for time in this dream.

He wound up in a well-trimmed and apparently genuine arboretum, with nice people also dressed in white outfits wandering in and out intermittently. He was then compelled to unclip the pen from his now totally groovy disco-era butterfly wing lapel, and uncapping it, proceeded to draw in mid-air between two beautiful white trees, a glowing pink line straight acorss, just above head height.

He continued this linear exercise until he had the representation of a doorway drawn, in totally awesome dayglo pink amidst the pristine and awfully white trees. This doorway of sorts commenced to fill itself with psychedelic colour patterns, which finally patterned themselves into a colourful but tastefully decorated recreation room that managed without fail to a) create an amazing contrast to the surrounding amazingly white trees (I’m talking white bark, white branches, white leaves, white cracks, white bugs, white dewdrops, white knotholes, the works! It was so surreal as to be without a shadow of a doubt, or of anything else for that matter… Really white!); b) draw the slightest bit of attention from even the youngest of the people passing by in their immaculate white dayclothes; and c) settle into one arrangement, as if the room were haunted by the restless ghosts of interior decorators who couldn’t agree on anything for more than a few seconds.

[to be continued]

L o L,
airing out his wardrobe closet

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