Dehydration

A troupe of tap-dancers did their hoppy thing. Their feet were a blur of shamrock green. The smile on their faces belonged in tourism brochures. They made an amazing amount of noise - clattering, clapping, tapping, stomping. Their feet beat out a tattoo which which found an echo in my heart, and quickened its beat. The camera panned out a little, and I saw that there were only ten of them, not the two hundred they sounded like. Then the camera panned out some more, and I realised that they were not really dancing in front of me. They were in my head. Or on my head. I can't be sure. Everything's strange this morning.

The morning brought with it memories and memory loss. It also brought with it turmoil in the stomach, eyes that wished the sun would turn itself off and inexplicable shooting pains down the length of the arm. It forced you to hydrate, but to hydrate one has to move, and every step was a small death. It forced a music change - rock 'n roll for violin strains that seemed to waft down from heaven. It served to remind me that somewhere in the world was goodness and beauty, and if I survived this morning, I should dedicate the rest of my life to searching it out. If I survived.

Bad hangover. Bad fucking hangover.