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Dreamed 1997/5/8 by Chris Wayan

I'm walking along a terrace, weaving through open-air tables. An upscale cafe, in fact a rather exclusive club. All white and mostly male, wearing suits--and (like everyone in this society) eerie masks with golden eyes and blue crystal lips. Not inscrutable--each mask expresses a strong emotion, expressing one's character and mood and status.

I feel naked without a mask.

I pause by a table where two middle-aged figures, respectably masked, are feeding an old man whose face is bare. They call him Baby, though he's likely their fading father. He objects "But I asked for ORANGE JUICE!" and they coax "But we already paid for coffee and stew! Eat up, Baby, don't waste it." And they lift the big dish to his lips and pour it in.

He smiles delightedly, doesn't fight--just takes it in till his cheeks puff out like a frog full of flies... then spews it at them, a brown, disgusting spray that spatters their crystal masks. So what if he starves? Why should he care? He's a senile, stubborn old man with a naked face.

With no mask left to lose.


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