Coney island towers and strange little men

Rivenis and I are at a coney-island faire. There are crowds and lines and people, stalls and tents and rides and we are standing in the midst of it on stone cold floors.

We cross the plank to the swinging pirate ship and now we are on the flattened top of an indoor tower surrounded by a square room. There is a bottomless, endless drop between the outer wall of the tower and the inner wall of the room.

Now there is a crowd of people on the swinging ship tower ride, and we are standing in the midst of it on stone cold floors. There are midget men. Little men. Little oompaaloompaa men. Dwarf men. Tiny men. Tiny faerie hobbit men. They punch us in the knees. They punch us in the joints. They punch us in our groins.

We slip and slide over the side of the tower clinging to its outer walls by punching the walls with our own fist. The impact creates suction like the tentacles of octopi or the cups on the feet of toys and knick knacks and bits and pieces of things stuck to the windshields of cars.

We alternate between the tower’s outer wall and the room’s inner wall punching our way around them both; watched over the side by the strange little faerie men who wait patiently for our knees and our pelvises and our groins to resurface.

Thus the Dreaming ends ...