Girl in a red dress plays on a red carpet on the sand, band of grey sky, band of white foam (rising), band of blue water, band of pale beach. Limp ugly creatures limp around the girl playing. Red armchair off askew facing the water. Achey on the side of my bed I can lean over (my bed, of course, suspended in air on the invisible second story), and watch the girl. When it rains I get wet and she does not.
So we go swimming, one step off the sand and I’m in the deep end, deeper; where’s the continental shelf? I also have problems finding the quotation marks, apostrophes, commas, and especially @ signs on each new keyboard. Sheep drift bewildered in the rolling hills under water. The sand, beach, and earth, like a wall, approach and recede with each wave. Makes sense to me, and maybe the girl (the limp creatures are still limping swimming along beside her).
I’m sinking of course – did you know how much there is underwater? There’s this futuristic city, bubbles and domes and enormous glass windows. But the lighting is only okay, the artist had a specific color palette in mind: only the blue has made it down here. People are walking around, their hair drifting wildly weightless behind them, their clothes as if suspended in a stiff breeze, the flags always unfurled. Here, you know, there are waterways everywhere. Canoes, water taxis, and mattresses pushed along by lanky men with long sticks drift through the streets. Look, there is a market, with color! Must be artificial lighting. Shawls are shimmering curtains of tiny shells, tunics are woven seaweed, coats are sea cow leather studded with sea anenomes.
I approach the market. There is a red carpet, limp creatures, a red armchair askew, (knocked over on its side). There’s my bed, the sheets are in disarray. The girl bursts into a flock of bright shiny fish. I shouldn’t do this again.