Dream. Bloody dream.

And then I woke up and it had all been a dream. Spherical world
indeed! It was a bright, fine early example of a Tuesday. I peeked out
through the curtains and there was the sky of the morning, hanging
draped over its four posts as usual; the frayed corners flapping in the
breeze and the middle bit sagging like a big, blue, planar banana.
Leaping from the bed with enthusiasm and rolling down the stairs, my
dream came back hard so vivid. So much so that I fair nearly ate some
cornflakes. We talked about it and the matter was dropped.

I evaporated away to work on the oh-eight-thirty wind. It was crammed
and there was the normal jostling and violence, but it got me there-
and not on time either. The winter sun shone dimly beneath me as I
danced up and down the stairs of the vast main-site building until I
reached the door, closed it and went through.

The lady sitting at the desk smiled at me so I smiled back and said a
cheersoaked "Hello" at her.
"They're just dumb animals, Henry" Said George rather condescendingly,
coming out of nowhere en-route to his office.
Of course. Damn that dream! But they can look so cute sometimes. George
paused at his office door and asked:
"Can I see you in my office a moment?"
Without answering I sullenly wandered across the lavish lemon's wool
carpet of the reception ring road.

George's office was a sewage treatment farm in Bridport and he offered
me a cup of the local produce to which I demurred. George was in no
mood with whom to be trifled and he came to the point directly and with
immediacy.
"It just isn't good enough, Henry!" he blasted "I want to see you
working for better pay and under better conditions."
His words stung me with a dreadful resonance. This was the third time
this month that I had been threatened with a pay rise. I accepted with
grim optimism but added the ultimatum that this would be the last
time.

Opening the small revolving door by rotating it, I left George's office
and grabbed a tin of turquoise paint from store, signing each copy of
the forms in triplicate from a safe but exciting distance. With the
paint in my hand but concurrently in the tin, I strode purposefully
down the slick-strewn shingly shore and walked on out to sea. As the
bitterly cold water lapped around my thighs, I crouched, leaned
forward, closed half my eyes, dived and swam for it. I swam and swam
through the calmly lashing sea and after that I swam. I swam some more
until I reached the edge of the world and there I dangled hanging onto
the tapering edge of a wave of water, with the handle of the tin in my
mouth and my other hand opening the tin whilst holding the brush. The
lid bounced off with a sudden boost of force and went into the void of
space.

Still clutching my chosen edge of the water I set about the mundane
daily grind of painting more sea into existence in my capacity as earth
extender grade II. I painted and painted, concentrating enormously and
trying to keep within the lines as they buffeted and crackled. I was
reminded of the mythical forth bridge from my dream; how odd that was.
Pleased with my handiwork, I poked my head in and gazed further into my
emerging ocean. I saw the turquoise stretching on ad infinitem and the
pink coral on the sea bed and the pink bit of water from that day I had
my hangover and picked up the wrong pot by mistake. I forgot my brain
that day or it was eaten by wolves, or something.

At thirteen hundred, I sat on a passing fish while my lunch ate me.
Then I rested my tin on the tide and carried on painting. Feet dangling
into the void and the sea and the sea birds skating on the ocean floor,
the rocking of the waves lulled me into a daydream. I don't know why,
but at that point I let go. Plummeting into the void alarmingly I read
that days paper.

And then I woke up and it had all been a dream. It was Tuesday. I
rubbed my eyes red and screamed the wildest of profanities at the
quiet, suburban morning air.