I was in a shop dressed in a strange fru fru ensemble with big puffy shoulders and skirt. It was raining outside, and I might have been an actress. I was waiting for something. I was meant to be somewhere and I was late. I was seeing myself like I was in a film, but I wasn’t acting.
The shop was filled with miniature things. Little tiny things. Mini canons on key rings, mini framed paintings. Mini pencils. Nothing you’d actually want.
There was a bowl of hard boiled eggs, peeled, on a shelf. I picked them up and I bit into them one by one. It was a kind of fortune telling ritual. I had to see what the yolks were like. I must have bit into at least ten eggs. I threw away most of the white bits, except the tips which I ate.
These jellatinous blobs fell like dudd bouncy balls onto the floor. Discarded but recognisable. I was only interested in the egg yolks. Each of which was different – some grey, some dry, some very yellow, some still not fully cooked.
I was trying to ascertain a truth from the yolks. I think they told me that I was a changeable person, because they were all so different. What a waste of eggs I thought when I woke up. It’s not very profound is it.