The Stream

The Stream of Consciousness. A laughing clown filled the heavenly screen, a grin full of malice. Behind him bearded men were eating children, wine and blood ran down their chests, they were having the time of their life. Democracy is great they chanted: freedom to exploit the weak and poor. They were friendly offered me a child’s soft arm and thigh, But I shook my head and walked on I had to find my way home. And there it was shining red on a hill in afternoon light. The apartment block had no entrance rope hung from windows, my flat was on the third floor. I tried to climb up it was vital for me to get home, but half way up I lost the grip, too feeble, I slid down and my hands burst into flames, I put my hands into a bucket of water that turned into wine, which I coolly drank. A fire engine hasted by I tried to hail it to borrow their ladder, but they had no time to stop so many other fires breaking out. I walked to the everlasting river, sat on a stone and listened to Its universal language. Then I let go and became the river.