I noticed a dream hiding in a crack as I walked down the sidewalk on Broadway. I recognised it from my childhood. The instant our eyes met, the dream looked scared, but I reassured it with a smile. It made me promise to keep our chance meeting a secret. The dream told me it had been working on Sydney’s North Shore, feeding the neurosis of rich, middle-aged divorcees until it became too greedy and started looking for cash-in-hand work, eventually moonlighting as a nightmare in the slums.
As a result, it had been suspended by the Union of the Consolidated Subconscious Mind for four weeks and was forced to earn a living as a sexual fantasy in a large accounting firm. It became bitter, accusing colleagues of having part time jobs as drug hallucinations.
The dream had always been proud and I felt disappointed to see it reduced to such a sorry state. I gave it some hope, promising that I would call it if I ever needed a dependable escape from reality. It thanked me for the support and crawled back into a crevice that split the concrete, silently waiting for the wandering imaginations of unsuspecting commuters.
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