Architectural dreams

A woman is doing something strange with wax and gold and copper wires, and saying something about the blood/brain barrier. She then sticks the contraption back into the wall of the power house. There’s some kind of arts gala downstairs, a grand soiree. Some cocktail dresses and tuxedos have come up here to the roof to look at the stars. But I am leaning on the ramparts with all the women in hard hats, watching the generators in the courtyard fire up for the night. They are loud. I hear the bass vibrate through my torso, and let my eardrums be destroyed. They only turn them on at night, the university uses the power grid during the day.

Then we detach. The power plant rises up on it’s wheels, and slides through a tunnel down a ramp. After a few false starts, being unable to drive up staircases, we come out onto the road. Sailing along in the power plant. It’s a squat building, I feel like I’m riding on a chess rook.

A stately home, built on the frame of an expensive car, overtakes us. Then all of a sudden a fibro beach shack runs a red light and T-bones it. All the rich people spill out and start shaking their fists, but the shack speeds on. Fortunately, a grand white courthouse is quickly on its tail. There’s no siren, but a British bobby policeman comes out onto the balcony with a little old fashioned sign saying “Alert, case in progress”

I’m a policeman now, my gun drawn. I kick down the door to the shack. Inside are two rednecks desperately pouring water onto a green twig, floating in a sink.

“The Griffith will be angry if we don’t give it water,” says the short one, “It will give us poison

As I watch the twig begins to bloom, twisting in the sink. It unfurls and blossoms and grows into a monster plant. A sinister intelligence. My gun is trained on it, but I am still wary.

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