A few gentle, quiet and tenuous but sharply clear-so-she’d-hear piano notes came from some chamber in her mind to her left, spanning across time and space.
But the plane shifted, cutting off the connection, and she couldn’t reach out to touch his crisped white collar.
A warm, dim-lit parlor opened where an umber-smoked piano beckoned soothingly and an older, stubble-faced confident was ready to lend an ear.
But she only played very litle and in private, and this person was not real in life to her.
Another room – a bar this time – filled to brimming with beautiful younger women, viscious in their competetive trimmings, ready to jeer and leer at her for trying.
Then that feeling over-riding everything as she turned another corner in the portal maze lacking any grounding.
“No, no more bathroom dreams please – where clothes go suddenly missing, and I’m scrambling.”
Candid Corvid Productions 