This morning I climbed up the chair to eat the knickerbocker glory left on the kitchen counter, laughing. Father would never allow me to eat such an elaborate dessert, but he left this morning. Telemachus they call me. A son of glory.

With my fingers I lick a drop of ice cream and the red dark sirop soiling the surface of my fantastic world, now laughing at the collapsed soufflé, forgotten trophy of my dessert festival. Knickerbocker glory, lemon meringue tarts, flamboyant trifles, cream and fruits and chocolate chips.

Oh what a magic world. I’m delighted, I’m confused, I’m speechless, I’m terrified. What was my line? I forgot my line, and cannot stop watching the two white caterpillars, the size of two trains, approaching each-other, at full speed. The closer they get, the faster they go.

I climb down the chair, feel the cold floor tiles under my bear feet, and the sweat running down my back. Father left this morning. The day was breaking.
 
                                
                                             Writing with dreams #6. Marie Beauchamps © London, October 2020.
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