only, in my dream, he doesn't walk - he floats. and, in my dream, you can hear the tingles that the really good parts make on my skin. they sound like a hundred tiny, laughing cymbals. then these guys come along...
and cause a bit of a frenzy. the cymbals turn angry, so we all use the guitars like swords, and it gets a touch medieval - bystanders in paper crowns, gnawing at huge chicken legs - but we win, and float off down the cobblestone, whistling and laughing and cymbaling.
No comments:
Post a Comment