Nonsense Dreams of a Cubical Resident

There will be a sonnet for cello and piano playing in the background. Humphrey Bogart will be standing in the train station, awaiting the arrival of the train: with a bouquet of white lilies in his hands and his eternal cigarette in the corner of his lips, his long black fleece coat blowing in the wind. The train station is covered with an increasing fog, and in warm scents: it smells like warm apple pie and cinnamon, like freshly brewed coffee, like the warm beet sold by peasants in Tehran’s dark and cold winter alleys.

People will be gathering in the train station, awaiting the arrival of the train. Women and men of all colors and shapes, and kids: with plump pink cheeks and toothless mouths, dimpled chins, sparkling eyes and balloons in their little warm hands.

A military orchestra group will pass and play a march with trumpets and drums. Doves will make love on the marble floor of the old train station.

Then the train will arrive: people will run along the train waiving. It will be a recreation of the return of POW’s from Iraq: joy and sadness of all the lonely years passed will intermingle in throats and burst tears out of eyes.

The passengers will disembark:

 The survivors of the cruel thing we call life:

People with one hand, one eye, no lips

People with half a kidney and borrowed hearts

Women who lost their breasts and ovaries

Men who were born in the wrong gender

Uglies, fats and the anorexic

Whom who were never noticed, like passing shadows on a wall

Bankrupts with holes on their scalps

Failed students with no success in any academia

Junkies dead in the dumpsters

Whom who were never loved

Or lost loved ones

Retards and psychos

Prostitutes with no name and no face

 

Everyone will be greeted by someone who was waiting there for them all the long time they were lost in the pungent streets of life.

Everyone will be hugged and kissed and cuddled, even those who hate being loved.

Everyone will receive balloons and flowers.

 

And I will be greeted by Humphrey Bogart, who has waited for me with the lilies and cigarette. He will take me Home, where we let the fog burry our bodies as we merge together in a boat shaped bed, and we will disappear from the existence: only the ashes of a cigarette and a strand of my hair left here.

 

Yes, all this would happen if the train makes it to the station:

If our train is not lost in the dead end trail road or bombed by the government

If the train station is not raided by the air force and missiles

If Humphrey Bogart doesn’t die of throat cancer

If the lilies survive the cold…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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