The Muse
The room's unsteady floor feels, nonetheless, solid beneath him. Rick dreams of falling, sometimes. And then, sometimes, he wakes to find he's falling - through a Muse world he can't control; a world some client's placed him in, for reasons he's supposed to pretend he's been truly told. Rick likes the real world - he likes the rubbish, the creaking of the floorboards beneath the rug beneath him - more sodden every year, but still tangible. Rick likes to walk back and forwards in his office, testing the limits of real space.
At the window, Rick places his palm flat against the glass. The rain outside swerves in wind-shapes, blown like curtains passing through each other. It's a long way down, and Rick has to lean and peer to see the descending high rises reflected in the street-water. He should really move the office to a lower level but his clients know where to find him, here, and his creditors don't.
As Rick watches, the rain ebbs; ebbs again. Someone cycles past, embalmed in plastic. In the distance, Rick thinks he hears an explosion.
Then, after ten minutes or so, a figure emerges out of the rain, shuffling forwards in a distinctive rolling gait that tugs at Rick's memory, uselessly. The figure is bundled up against the weather Rick can't see a face, can't see hands. But something about the figure's movements remind Rick of
Remind him of dreaming something, probably, is all.
The figure moves out of the street-light's light. Rick can't see a thing any more. On the glass, water rivulets bundle and disperse, like thick veins prodded through aging skin.
Rick wonders something.
At the window, Rick places his palm flat against the glass. The rain outside swerves in wind-shapes, blown like curtains passing through each other. It's a long way down, and Rick has to lean and peer to see the descending high rises reflected in the street-water. He should really move the office to a lower level but his clients know where to find him, here, and his creditors don't.
As Rick watches, the rain ebbs; ebbs again. Someone cycles past, embalmed in plastic. In the distance, Rick thinks he hears an explosion.
Then, after ten minutes or so, a figure emerges out of the rain, shuffling forwards in a distinctive rolling gait that tugs at Rick's memory, uselessly. The figure is bundled up against the weather Rick can't see a face, can't see hands. But something about the figure's movements remind Rick of
Remind him of dreaming something, probably, is all.
The figure moves out of the street-light's light. Rick can't see a thing any more. On the glass, water rivulets bundle and disperse, like thick veins prodded through aging skin.
Rick wonders something.
You have 2 choices:
- Should he bundle himself up, too, against the rain, and walk or jog down to the street's own level, to get a better look at that figure, and see if anything sparks in his sparkless memory?
- Or should he stay in the warm, here, where he ought to be, waiting for clients like the true professional his online profile insists he is? This latter, of course, is what Rick should do.