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Planning had, admittedly, never been one of my stronger talents—or a talent at all, for that matter—but a plan had indeed been made and set into motion by the time I arrived at the gallery. The sun had not yet yawned its great vastness into the sky, nor had I myself fully awakened. I dragged my feet into the studio and forced the near spasmodic muscles in my limbs to settle as Geo gave his beloved canvas the last few flicks of his paintbrush. In time, the painting was carried into an adjacent room to dry.
Then I was sent back to the hotel for a few hours' sleep.
As though sleep was possible.
Only was it out of pure desperation that I settled somewhere between Hemera and Nyx; neither fully awake, nor yet far gone enough to reach the sandman’s lair. It was as though I had entered the land of thought itself. The images swirling through my mind were not ones of fairy fantasies, but rather the purest form of logic and it’s kin.
Mostly memories.
But even these were not the picturesque remembrances of innocent’s youth. In truth, they were those distinct instances only memorable for having been forgotten; days much as any other, yet set aside by the mind’s eye for just such moments as I then lay before them.
There were pubs, though where or when exactly, I was consistently unsure.
Rocking boats and apple orchards faded in and out of existence.
Swarms of roaring aeroplanes bore a similar fate.
Once or twice I had the sudden feeling of riding a motorbike as it expertly turned and twisted along city streets merging outward into country roads.
But this too disappeared within my raging subconscious.
Back and forth the thoughts went; a pendulum of acrobats swinging between life and death.
Reality and my nightmare.
And somewhere between the two—or perhaps nearer to the first—came a ship of enormous size as it was steered back toward the empty waters.
Only to ignite within its iron belly and explode.