By J•∑ (@RahMussin)
Sinister glitch-faced meta-entity @direlog and avuncular kawaii drug-dictator @Ketamine_Stalin have spiked the entire BBC with LSD. London (and, we can presume, the rest of England) is very much losing its shit.
Lurking around cobbled backstreets and dingy underpasses, it's pretty clear that only @dog_smell and @nearly_Mitchell can save the nation’s sanity. Their tireless heroism — calming freaked grannies, reasoning with mind-blown rudeboys, running from cracked-out cops — quickly gets to be a bit much for the dreamer, who retires to the HQ of the rag-tag resistance movement aboard a dilapidated tugboat that sits on tidal mudflats.
Here, he spangles out with @johnmacdo (the dream logic seeming to be that if the BBC is tripping, everyone is tripping), and they try to offer some kind of infomatic support to dog_smell and nearly_Mitchell via an old Amstrad greenscreen computer. Rabbit-holing into Ceefaxy cyberspace as the tide slowly rises around the tug, the dreamer is drawn into a massively multiplayer text-based adventure of Pynchon-esque proportions, vivid personalities and giddying intrigues throbbing from the emerald text.
Wrenched from this reverie by a power cut, the dreamer finds Johnny Mac snoring on a scratty couch, their vessel adrift on the open sea. An increasingly lucid gaze over moonlit wavelets provides a spacious interlude of counterpoised anxiety and calm. Humming meditatively, @Whimsykayak enters the bridge of the tugboat via a staircase from below, carrying a lantern and a teapot.
A car alarm sounds.
The dreamer awakes.
Lurking around cobbled backstreets and dingy underpasses, it's pretty clear that only @dog_smell and @nearly_Mitchell can save the nation’s sanity. Their tireless heroism — calming freaked grannies, reasoning with mind-blown rudeboys, running from cracked-out cops — quickly gets to be a bit much for the dreamer, who retires to the HQ of the rag-tag resistance movement aboard a dilapidated tugboat that sits on tidal mudflats.
Here, he spangles out with @johnmacdo (the dream logic seeming to be that if the BBC is tripping, everyone is tripping), and they try to offer some kind of infomatic support to dog_smell and nearly_Mitchell via an old Amstrad greenscreen computer. Rabbit-holing into Ceefaxy cyberspace as the tide slowly rises around the tug, the dreamer is drawn into a massively multiplayer text-based adventure of Pynchon-esque proportions, vivid personalities and giddying intrigues throbbing from the emerald text.
Wrenched from this reverie by a power cut, the dreamer finds Johnny Mac snoring on a scratty couch, their vessel adrift on the open sea. An increasingly lucid gaze over moonlit wavelets provides a spacious interlude of counterpoised anxiety and calm. Humming meditatively, @Whimsykayak enters the bridge of the tugboat via a staircase from below, carrying a lantern and a teapot.
A car alarm sounds.
The dreamer awakes.