The Language Company

A knife contained a collapsible battery-operated emergency room in Achebadem, an expensive private Bursa, Turkey hospital with heart rate monitors, respirators, and dialysis machines, transplant mechanisms, microscopes and high-tech life support goodies.

One engraved knife revealed The Dream Sweeper contraption manufactured in Ha Noise, Vietnam. It remembered evolutionary and revolutionary Communist nightmares surviving American B-52 bombers dropping millions of tons of ordinance on Nam, Cambodia and Laos. Hallucinations and bliss evolved from a point of light traveling at 186,000+ miles per second.

Space folded.

The efficient Dream Sweeper Machine collected unconscious talking monkey stories.

From inside narrow Nam alleys where death-worship was a constant reminder of rapacious ancestors eating incense screaming FEED ME dreams arrived crawling, flying, dancing, staggering, singing, laughing, weeping, and sighing into The Machine.

Dreams begged for mercy, clarity, understanding and interpretation. There are no facts, only interpretations.

Dreams pondered historical inevitabilities: What is life? How did I grow? How did I get here? What if I die here? Who will be my unconscious role model? Who will save me from ultimate absolute reality? Who will feed me in a Peoples’ Communist Paradise dream reality where everyone shares toilets, kitchens and spoiled whining children? Where education is considered a waste of time and money? Where bribes are a way of life buying your future?

Bored Asians with an emotional level of -7 exchanged drab artificial lives playing on Fakebook, a glorious virtual electronic frontier of equality and equity enjoying hi-tech distractions with firewalls, corroded barbwire and rusty window gratings. Dark. Silent. Black is the night. Cold is the ground.

A boy brought brown tea, silver spoons and sugar cubes.

 “Prison is a refuge and a release,” said Lucky. “Solitary confinement, junkyard blues and an environmental impact statement: No one gets out alive. I was abandoned at five.”

 “We are all orphans sooner or later. What trauma happened in your childhood?” said the owner singing circular music clinking a teaspoon, “Twinkle, twinkle little star how I wonder...”

 The Language Company