The balloon is in a cloud of smoke. Breathing pumps the smoke through my body. I see no dog. Then I realise I�m outside the balloon itself. The dog is 30 yards to the left. It�s in the middle of a hubble of interest. Red Indians poke him. They�re around me too. They have luminous beards and turnip coloured skins. They peer down with aged wisdom. They look through me. I try to focus on a face, but all seem to be a strange blank. I can make out blurred features. Slight, flat hints of definite creatures. But they all appear as if covered by paper. Then I realise, as I lie flat they�re poking around in me. Their tools are made out of bone.
One of them looks at a chart � studying it with an intense gaze reserved for a high, almost drug induced state of perception. He holds a paintbrush and, with 3D paint seems to be constructing a clone. My eyes close and I return to my mind. I probe its terrain. I feel fabrics being unconstructed, pulled away carefully and being measured. Some of it lays on the grass nearby � a plateau of which is appears like a table floating through the thick gas. It doesn�t scream � but winks quietly.
All is painted by the man with a skull around his neck. A luminous representation of a non human form. They�re searching for something and being very thorough . Pieces of my brain are being kept alive outside their environment and I know � it hits me like a wave � that I�ll be put together again. But at that moment I�m scattered through the clouds. My conscious mind splintered and in strips. I just lie back. My body explains to me that I�m helpless. Not trapped � but a sticky sweet odour funnels up my nose and stings the pieces of myself surgically laid out on mats of grass. I hope I�ll be OK.
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