The world was orange and turquoise, sunlight playing on labradorite. There was a man in front of a canvas, painting an ever-changing field – wheat, poppies, sunflowers. Van Gogh at work.
Orange and turquoise, again.
Next, I was in a museum. It was quite dark, but there was an illuminated sphere in the middle of the room, made of thousands of crystals. I heard a man say “it’s alive”. As I bent closer, I could see the blue-orange sea billowing within.
Then I was in the sphere. It looked and smelled like an attic, a lingering scent of dry, sun-worn wood.
Suddenly, I was in my mother’s yard, staring at a discarded man’s shoe almost submerged in the mud. I felt sad.
I was in an orthodox church. A priest was performing a ceremony in front of a congregation. I noticed a middle aged man in the first row. The church had confession cabins lined up at the side, covered with curtains. There were armed man within, waiting for something.
And there came a rain of colours in slow motion. I wondered what was going on. Did the mosaic windows explode?