The Chariot

I am on a beach, in the pouring rain. A much too large moon is floating in a restless purple sea to my right. Despite the weather, people have spread beach towels on the sand and their sunshades act as umbrellas. Some of them are made of finely decorated paper, torn by the hail that falls on the coast. Everyone is dressed absurdly: hats adorned with ostrich feathers, velvet jackets on which grains of sand get stuck, stiletto heels engulfed by the dunes, silk top hats blown by the wind. People are fat and greasy, wrapped up in their clothes, slumped on their towels. The men are desperately trying to light their pipes despite the weather, the women are sipping an infamous sweet-smelling alcoholic beverage. All are perfectly aligned, all stare at me, while I run for my life. I run for a long time. My breath is ragged, spikes of pain shoot through my chest, and adrenaline makes my heart beat at a frantic pace. I look back: they are still there, chasing me. An army of faceless men in shiny white suits. I accelerate, pushing myself to my limits, ignoring the crowd that watches me in silence.

The sound of my strides, the roar of the men chasing me, my ragged breath, the hail, the thunder, the waves bursting on the shore.

I fix my gaze on my objective: a fence behind which small coloured heaps are amassed. A few more meters.

They have almost caught up with me now, I hear them yelling, "Noooo stop him before he reaches the thoughts!" "Faster, we have to stop him! He will reach the thoughts!"

I can now hear the clatter of their suits, less than a metre away from me. Everything is coming to an end.

A hand grazes me. I leap over the fence. The thoughts, arranged in little bright and colourful piles, twirl under my impact. I stumble towards a huge wobbly pile and dive in.