The alchemic stupor that lulled then pulled me under, brought with it bright dancing lights that invaded through my ears with such longing in its horrendous hiss, and with a slow frame-by-frame I saw the toilet bowl in my restroom and managed to turn my face leftward as it made contact with my marrow.
There, on the other side of that shitty blow, I awoke to find myself a singing bird–me, chirping and whirring violently, music notes of all kinds into the ionosphere, and with them color and shades that painted the trees and skies as they went. Values vitiating the monochromatic monotony of the masses and their complacent mortality. I was poetry pulsing and pushing.
The sound of men was cursively cacophonous, and above their heads I beheld them like lethargic moths staring at individual glaring lights–as they walked, as they drove, as they ate, hardly able to help themselves.
My song was so natural, a language all my own. I kept singing and singing, and singing alone was its reward. In such a state I had forgotten that I was ever a man. No hands to ponder upon, no legs to lead me…simply flight and song.
I continued on my voyage and came upon a skyscraper. There I saw my own appearance, an image so beautiful and terribly terrifying: A fowl of iridescent hues haunting the other side of my reflection, no doubt. On the other side was a woman who wanted me for I was of great beauty–but she wanted me to keep me in a cage and never let me fly again. A thousand monks began to chant in baritones somewhere far below. My wings slowed to a pause and they pointed opposite each other, one to the west and the other to the east. Tiger stripes traveled stridently across the perfect plumage…comely clangor followed as the monks bit their tongues off…and I saw each tongue wiggle like lazy worms into a hole, into any dark hiding place.
Beeping brightly and sharply lifting my sticky and blood-dried eyelids, I awoke and rose slowly. Breathing calmly with each movement. I hit the light switch and stared in the mirror and mused for a moment at the striped pattern on the right side of my face.
And I wonder, even now, If I, Adrian Vino, was dreaming that I was a magnificent bird, or am I a bird dreaming now that I am a man?
Either way, one thing is certain, my stripes remain the same.