It is cold and my fur-feathered coat is blue and he is taller. Blond, spiked hair, and that same muted blue tone permeating the reality we currently share. I walk in heels like it's my job, but streetwalking doesn't pay enough anymore. I light a cigarette, the smoke wafting across my pale painted face. We drift from club to club.
I awaken. Three hours later, I fall back to sleep.
I know they are clubs because of the alcohol and neon. The entire world now is bathed in that electric blue raspberry. Blue, it seems, is the future; however one sigil stands out as Budweiser brown: a strange pattern of illusory adverts and gnashing angles draws the eye against the mirrored bar.
And suddenly, we're outside. The traffic is heavy, and I now realize (post dream, that is) that this used to be OSU. But that place has been gone for years and years -- so long I do not remember it existing. He and I have no vehicle in this web of unwheeled traffic, and taxis are more dangerous than walking. But this does not stop us.
We hail a fellow riding an open-air skiff. Just a cart with railings, but at least it's big and still made of good solid metal. Too many of those economobiles aren't anything but plastic and third-world labor. We head up the road, turn right, and stop at a light. Our benefactor then ditches the skiff, leaving us on it. Thanks to the magic of dreams, this is not noticed until we turn onto Frambes from High. We then notice an undercover cop, which is now a redundant phrase.
Dread fills me, and my partner too is unnerved, particularly as the sirens rev up and the searchlight blinks into life; eyeing our lives with its white-hot solar flood. The skiff is wanted, and we are soon to be what people lovingly refer to as habeas corpses.
I awaken again, aching to sleep once more to find my conclusion. It never comes.