Very, but very early, one late September morning. Heads back to front. Heads and tails back to front.
Inside out, Peter watched the harlequin jester tumble and jingle from out of his left ear into his right and back to centre stage again. She had somersaulted to a hoppity halt between the point of Peter’s nose and his backdrop of thinning, but slightly curly hair. She stared into Peter’s blue eyes and lifted two fingers that cut the stare in an insolent salute.
“Stare you out anytime, dickhead....So! Now you know! This is where it all begins and ends....”
And she stared, over theatrically, of course, around the gloomy theatre, arms outstretched, palms upwards, Cheshire cat grin and lopsided bow included.
“....Here, baby....Right here!....Not much of an infinite space, is it?....Full moon though!”
And Peter saw his eardrums hear what he had just seen, and outside, in the real world, Peter, Alba and The Pretty Girl’s grey matter did The Blancmange together, oh, ooh, aaah, so sweetly, to such strange music.
But then came sunrise and silent blindness forever.
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