Dreamland.

May 17, 2007

I’m due to leave any moment. I need to get to my destination, and soon. I don’t care about how much it costs. My destination is far away, certainly a long haul flight across the Atlantic away.

I’ve forgotten something, and I’m rushing. I hop in a taxi to take me into the darkest depths of rural Scotland. It’s dark and raining, but I can see the roads here are red, like the old Lanarkshire roads, but covered in extreme potholes.

“The roads are pretty bad here, eh?”

“Aye, the fucking cities take all the money. We get none out here!” the driver responds.

“I need to get to my destination.”

“Okay. But before we go I have to put on Muse, Knights of Cydonia.” Suddenly, it’s daylight. I wonder how I didn’t notice his computer set up in the passenger side; three screens controlling his sound system. The buttons on the computer appear to be made of rubber, not plastic. He starts the track playing, having not been paying attention to the road but still avoiding parked cars. We’re now in the city.

I comment on how it’s an ace song, then tell the taxi driver again where I’m meant to be going, at which point he looks panicky. “Well then, we’re going the wrong way.”

We get out of the taxi. It’s dark again, and I can see that we’re near to the motorway. He picks up the car and puts in carefully under his arm; we walk across the motorway. All the cars are stuck in a jam, everybody’s trying to get out of the city. Not one car is trying to go where we’re going, toward the city.

The driver puts the car back down, neatly placed between lanes on the motorway, ready to drive into town. I freak out. I don’t want to get back into the car with him.

I run to the airport, and soon I find myself touching down on an island across the Atlantic. I walk ashore.

This, I think, is America. The people are laughing, happy. Money is rolling around. Lots of shops are open in this place, which seems like some sort of open air shopping area. The sky is dark, but nobody seems to mind. Lots of people are wearing puffy jackets which carry the stars and stripes. I feel sickened here.

I spot a large escalator heading up. I cannot see what’s at the top, but I decide to take it anyway.

I reach the top. People are a lot more subdued here. Gone is the brashness of down the stairs, and the sky is light.

“At last,” I think to myself, “I’m in Russia.”

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