On the elevated section of the written highway a driver might look down to see the next line cruising beneath the pen. My advice would be to let it pass or brake hard. If you see or sense something coming the chances are so will others.

 

The corridors were telescopic. In one direction narrowing, in the other opening out into broad Cathedral like chambers. The narrow field enticed with its constricted view, suggesting something hidden. The vast openness tempted the eye with its blurred horizon, suggesting something hidden. Approaching either resulted in the same shrinking experience. Everything is infinite even in its disappearing.

 

The Stairwell acted as a suicide chamber where spectators could idly watch the plungers swallow dive into pools of their own vomit. The resultant reunion created art beyond imagination.

 

As I left the house, on the doorstep of my dream I noticed an envelope with my name on it. I walked back through a door to find myself in the stairwell of a kaleidoscope.

 

Eric Morecambe was wearing a glowing silver shroud standing outside the courtroom. He was manipulating his spectacles from behind his ear and asking me if I was for crucifixion.

Eric Idle drove nails through the bridges of my feet whilst singing a song we wrote together in the dressing room.

 

I died exquisitely. Barabbas begged for forgiveness which I did not bestow because I was not who he thought I was.