Metabolism

A dream in which there is a small world contained on a cruise ship. Or a fleet of cruise ships which offer an infinitude of choice. Anything can be changed at any time at your will. You can trade in your cat for a younger cat and younger cat. You can trade in your deck chair. You can choose your food. The shape of your cabin. Colors. Everything. The ship itself can grow and adapt. It can suit your needs.

The ships are run by a company named Google My Army. Except in the cruise ship world, it doesn't say Google as clearly. The words are somehow refracted back so as not to remind you of anything. They make everything on the ship. The clothes have Google My Army tags. They raise the cats. Fluffy white cats. Silky black kittens. Striped cats. Splotchy cats.

There is a marathon going on. One of my cousins is participating. It's some sort of one person at a time marathon that includes a run up the long slide usually used to deliver guests to one of many pools. I would assume you're able to choose the outcome of the marathon. Also participating are the company executives. I believe I was in the employ of one who will, upon finishing the race, assume control of the company. He is young, a man to be feared.

I am wanting to escape. To leave, you need a voucher for the boat taxis that will take you back to land. I am in a small deckside restaurant. A light woven structure with a tiki style bar and stools. There are five or six other patrons. The new president approaches, but I am wearing a hat and glasses so as not to be recognized. It seems it wouldn't matter because he is drunk. In his dark jollity, he stuffs his taxi voucher in the band of my hat because he likes the way it looks, like an old press pass. I am holding a book, some sort of illicit book, but he gives me, the lone stranger, another book he likes to share. I slip the folded taxi voucher into my book and hide it under his, always keeping mine closer to my chest. He is feeling social. The restaurant patrons are quiet and on guard. He has taken an interest in me.

Someone must have wished the restaurant away because the hands of god begin to remove its walls. We can now see the ovens and right off the edge of the ship. We can watch the bartender/cook as he scurries about. I believe there was a roast chicken in the oven. Someone must have ordered it.

The president wants to dance. With me. I don't cross him lest he see through my glasses and recognize my face. He puts his arm snugly around my back. He appears to feel romantic. I hold on to my books. He is tired and cannot find his taxi voucher. His father is calling for the almanac data listed on the taxi voucher. He brings me to his room to search for it. The room is small and messy with two beds. The cook from the restaurant is sleeping motionless face down on the larger bed, feet near the pillows. I think we are leaving. The president slips out the door, but closes it behind him. I try to open it, but it will not move. I lean close to the door to pull on it. A knife stabs through. Any closer and

I wonder if the cook is dead, but decide to wake up.

I admit I've been putting off some emotions for later. Burying them in hopes that they might smolder out on their own, but it would seem they are floating back up to the surface at night, coloring my dreams.