018 – Synthly

I remember it so clearly now: it was the day the Rainbow Bridge was closed for repairs and we knew, in our hearts, that Mr. Sushi, was out there, somewhere. After having attended college and going on to a distinguished career as a feline seismologist, he'd lived a long and fruitful life. He'd grown a lot, growing from a loving lump of black coward. His little sister missed him very much, and we were thinking to bring another into our fold. But just not yet.

We each stood on the edge of the bay which divides this world from theother, clasped our hands together and watched as the giant crapcatchers rolled in, accompanied by equally impressive cloudage. It looked like Columbus' invasion of 1492 all over again, a plodding, insistent rhythm underpinning each stretch forward.

Often, the key to being expressive – in life or death – is not to convey the same emotions as others, but articulate how you are really feeling. It didn't make sense for me to cry at Mr. Sushi's, or my father's funeral, because that would've been pandering to the crowd. I was sad, but even happier this let me write tribute songs to them. My doppelganger put his hand on my shoulder and reminded me this is why I wake up while he sleeps.

On the way home, we took the CS80 train, the gravlev pulling us back into the heart of sign-riddled Fake Chinatown, where we'd celebrate Mr. Sushi's life and times with – what else? – the best sushi in the village.

Tagged as: *Dream Journal*