On the top floor of a magnificent high-rise, a young woman pirouettes into the middle of the room. She hop-skips around a deep, bubbling cauldron, the steam rising above a crackling fire. The lofty salon is a flood of beats and grooves.
Outside, a yellow sun breaks against the tall windows, illuminating a Jackson Pollock propped up against the marble wall. The streaks of paint dance in the light. The colours flow. They celebrate the dawn of a new day.
Electronic music pours from hi fi speakers; and her hair, black as the night yet a streak of disco lights, sparkling in the morning’s golden glow.
She sings: "A little bit of this, a little bit of that… maybe I'll throw in the wings of a bat!" And with a flick of her wrist, the neon, lava-like liquid explodes like fireworks.
She leans over the cauldron, wafting the fumes toward her… and with a *sniff* of her nose and a wooden spoon she takes a scoop and tries the concoction.
The floor falls away from underneath her feet. She drops! - and then flies, high over crimson-blue skies! She’s riding her broom, laughing ecstatically; she passes through purple clouds and rainbow birds – and her heart bursts with love and joy!
She swoops! - and descends into a beam of light and she drowns in music and sweet, sweet honey. She skims the leafy top of a tropical jungle; she bewitches tigers, flings a kiss at a unicorn. And then: Darkness.
She opens her eyes at home in the salon. She's rested and refreshed.
The room shimmers in the silver moonlight. The embers under the cauldron smoulder faintly. Dying sparks flicker on top. The fire has gone out.
She gets up and smiles, excited for the next day. What a trip!
"Tomorrow," she whispers, "a mushroom here, a mushroom there..." and she heads to bed.
Sometimes in life, all you want to do is get high off your own supply.
THE END
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