Juan Dominguez

The atmosphere ringed on for ages, with purple-green horizons staring back at me. And the eyes grew from deep within the trees. I knew I was there, at the right place, at the right time.

I wandered around the tree, one that would be cut down in the following months. I heard sounds of acoustic guitars rattling by near my head; while the bass drum, suspended in mid-air, bang swiftly to the rhythm of drum and bass.

The climbing plants created envelopes around me, and the canvas was covered, bloodshed. I new it was the place, but was it the time? I felt the grass whispering to my feet, don’t strangle me please, don’t kill me. And the buzzing of the birds, and the tweeting of bees, it rang through my brain, tormenting.

It was all going to fast, I could barely understand. It might be the time, but it might not be the place.

And I turned to the tree again, shivering. Icicles formed on the branches of the climbing plants. I was sweltering in the 40ºC mid-day heat. The sky turned orange, then purple again. I did not understand, I felt the violins scream around me. Or they might have been guitars, squelching at incredible speeds. Key change.

I touched the tree, as it slowly faded away into dreams, dreams of a past taken away from me, dreams of a photograph erased, dreams from a lost post, dreams from a memory.

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