The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 14

Marshmallow Addie began the slow and tedious process of disambiguation. Through the green mists of faltering bock propelled memoryloss, a murky fragment from a self-absorbed timescape emerged:

Crimorcles: What is sqrt pi inna kaiser role?




Pers: King Throng an aromatic sunrise.


Crimorcles: Yuss, thusly possibilities. Nay howevers, whit is knowst once or twine as a turns it onnits 'ead, a muhahahahaha three-sistie degrie.


Pers: The colour is plausitively bleu.




Crimorcles: Blood eegit! Tis sonly won. Orren' isstuh floe of raiche. Tis the furie of drimms. Now roass thut on yer bunn.

A thoughtful oyster suspended precariously above an infinite ocean pondered the surreal tragedy of its being, as the orange mist of terror slowly took over and melted its spine. It looked inwards of itself and to its surprise and horror, saw the universe. It looked downwards into the universe and saw itself. It understood the meaning of pointless reflection.


A flickering eyelid deslumber'd him. Marshmallow Addie awoke to acute myopia, and saw purple clouds dancing happily to tuneless chirrups of bird-like apparitions. Furia Arancia had singed his memory. For a change, the day was a happy continuum of events, but he still sighed, blind to the latent beauty of liquid moments, as he inadvertently soaked in them and watched them float into one another.


A fragment of dissociated future drifted by inocuously, and the languid gaze of the paralysed oyster briefly swept over it. In it, a visible shroud of peace quietly made its way over its quarry like a dull, warm and grainy shiver. The quarry's eyes knew. Its world really was calm. It really will be.

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 13

Music for an orange mist: a flickering wheel washed ashore through it, lapped up by warm foamy waves of backwash. It was a grating shoreline in cartoonish crayon sketches. A small bird
circling overhead noted its painful grimace as it hummed a discordant chirrup through doppler air pockets.

A crisp cocktail of rage and sorrow was the perfect remedy for midsummer blues. Furia Arancia washed it all away. A brief whiff of stale cigar fumes was always going to be a fragmented memory. Real-time was, after all, a jigsaw shaped jigsaw ephemerally remorphing into its predecessors. The continuous fragmentation of memory added an edge of cold steel to that irony.

Marshmallow Addie sighed himself into an empty stomachache. Self-inflicted binary fission on a tear of solitude fathered a briny puddle. Infinite thoughts pigeon-holed out of a limited mind woke him up everyday to disintegrating images of faux-reality. Who was he to predict what dreams may come? Fragments of future memories grappled ineffectively with deeply ingrained sorrows and fizzled out into a pointless night sky, just in time to catch infinite stars die. It was probably just an order of magnitude error.

Meanwhile, Yellowbottom's mellow shadow lit up a weary corner. He pondered life's infidelities and resisted the primal chill of a flashback as it started its gentle caress at the base of his spine. A hookah is constrained by the amount of time it can dedicate to fighting off air bubbles. Redundancy was a chilling feeling.

* * * * * *

A despondent coner on the mantle-shelf that was once oddly devoid of the cold slimy grip of spacetime now contained an apoplectic wedge of gorgonzola. Folied again. Its armies had been scythed through like hot butter through a knife. A bubble shaped dream had floated on a bed of lies and collard greens. Its time would come again. A dimensional shift (as usual) would be required to bring it back, but through its fragmented, keyhole vision, it could see that bits of the future were smugly making the past passe. Right now though, it was only a fistful of crackers away from meeting its end. In a very linear, continuous and limited sense of real-time, of course.