Mark

                8 o’ clock, time to wake up. He tore the sheets of his bed, like making his way out of a jungle. Six layers (or so it seemed like) of different textures of silk and wool, green and blue colours of striped shapes popped into his eyes as he stood up. Looking back at the bed he saw the naked legs of the lady he had taken home last night. Katrina was her name, or something of that hurricane-sort.

            But there was no time for remembrance. He had a dream, a beautiful dream, which could not be forgotten. He walked close to his piano, his coloured piano which reminded him of strange nights on acid, there he grabbed a blank book and opened around page 50, from there on, there were only pages drawn with empty pentagrams.

            With a lick on his pencil he threw the papers on the floor, along with his body and started to write. A symphonic melody passed before him, harmonies of dark semi-tones and white and clear octaves. Every note was a person, a feeling. Or was it not? Every time he struck this trance, this moment of euphoric writing of melodies, he could not stop  the dreamy state, the feeling that everything is connected, that in one low C there is that dark dancing hip movement, and that that high B holds a kiss, a champagne lip-fusion.

            When the draft was finished, he started to play. The piano sounded beautifully.

She woke up. Looked at him, with her beautiful oak eyes and said while smiling, with a soft voice: “Sounds like last night”.

            Mark stopped playing and looked at her straight: “It does”.