Brian and Drew and myself. In a room of 12x12. cluttered with instruments. Drew climbs into "the music box." Paint is dumped over him and as he spreads it over his body, notes ring forth in the guise of guitar, of piano, of synth, of horn, of his screaming voice. The Music Box is a cardboard box that looks like a low-grade robot outfit. It looks as though a child had drawn the design on with a crayon and pencil: a musing box of musicality. Brian is wrapped in c(h)ords and wires. I can not see him, I do not know what he looks like. I only know it is him. He holds a bugle and a french horn, both injected into his mouth, both spraying out black notes and spit. Some of the notes are covered in spit, making them seem like semen, squiggling around in the air, searching for an ear to penetrate and wet willy all at once. I am lost among the noise and motions. I cannot find an instrument which I know how to play. I see an old bass guitar leaning against the wall. I go to pick it up, but it is heavy. I pull harder and when it moves from the wall it falls apart before; it crumbles to dust. I scream, but no sound is made. I hit the walls and stamp the floor, but no beat sounds. Suddenly even Brian and Drew are quiet. They motion and play-on, but no noise emits. The notes in the air turn clear and pop like bubbles from a toy pipe. Drew's paints turn black and white and begin to flood the room. I scream and scream until my mouth fills with the paint. I swell with black and white. I vomit rain and clouds and fog.
I wake in a closet. Buried among cardboard boxes, stuffed animals, and intricate board games that put Mouse Trap to shame. I can hear low talking coming from another room. I stand up and walk through the mess. Clothes are thrown about, plastic toys are strewn about, Slinky's hang from the ceiling, computers glow underneath blankets, and walkie-talkies call out from underneath pillows "Delta 527 come in....Alpha-niner-zero what are your coordinates over...." I come into the next room and see a group going into another room. I get to the door as it closes and find it locked. I try another and go through it. I switch on the light. It is a black light. Moon rocks and scorpions glow about the room. My teeth feel like they are made of velvet. I feel like I have sun poisoning. I stumble backwards out of the room and fall into another room. Televisions line the walls and computers make-up the ceiling. Radios shuffle along the ground like crabs. An old fashioned receiver bumps into me and grumbles in AM snow. I step lightly towards a door in the corner. This door leads to the living room of my apartment from sophomore year in college. On the balcony, a deck of playing cards are acting out a revolution. The Numbers have the royal family lined along the railing, blindfolded. The Ace is trying to calm the crowd and mediate a peaceful resolution. The numbers carry pitchforks and flames; they shout surprisingly loud. One of the royal members, The Knave of hearts, is pierced in the back and falls off the railing, The King of clubs is next. The Queen of spades is about read to jump when a wind suddenly kicks up. A strong gust blows past the balcony and takes every single card into the air. I stand staring out into the distant sea for a moment, and then I hear a door slam and I turn and run to get to it. I open it onto a room of sofas and I jump into them, quickly falling asleep.
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