D R E A M M A N I F E S T O

(BEING A MANIFESTO OF DREAMERS, DREAM AND DREAMING.)                                                                 19th November, 2012.

We The Dreamers do hereby afirm and assert the Right to Dream, whensoever and howsoever We, The Dreamers, do see fit.  We claim unto our multifaceted non-selves the Right to choose the expression of our own Dreams in a manner we find fit, fulsome and worthy.  To cling to the clock is not to tock away our time in sorrowful lost and low lacklustre states, chronically and chronologically dependent on the pendulum of proprietous punctuality.  Slewing away and forever forsaking the dead realms of misery's unlovely maw, we will uphold our psyche's flights, glimmering and joyful, like a new dawn.  We will not surrender our Dreams.  We will not sell out our Dreams.  We will not compromise, cheapen or misrepresent our dreams.  We hold these Dreams to be the self-evident, self-luminous display of the slumberous minde.  We view these Dreams to be not empty of reason, teaching, knowledge, example, illustration, narrative, psychodynamism, drama and humour.  We acknowledge the fact that not all Dreams are pleasant.  We acknowledge the view that all Dreams are the manifestation of Consiousness itself, and therefore are not without value.  Not for naught have these Dreams been seen, felt, lived and, on occasion, broadcast afar to share with other Dreamers.  We (...)

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The Journal of Elias Gillpington - Chapter 1

Whilst it paineth me greatly to put pen to paper, I feel it my bounden duty to do so, if for no other reason than to serve a clarion call of warning to my brethren, compatriots and fellow worldlings.  Indeed it would be most remiss of me if I were to shirk the clear moral task of informing my cohabitors and orbic kin of the great perille that looms darkly over the innocence of their sleeping lives, dreaming fast, as they do, in the rustic hundreds of the Great Shyre of West Kirnowe.  
  I ask not for your belief, neither your indulgence – I ask only that you weigh my words each by each, and weigh them well – for what I have to relate is a thynge both singular and perplexing;  a thynge meant not for the chubby ears of a succulent and well-tempered Humanity.   
  On the shady and misty evening of January the 11th, 1911, I’d tottered down the ancient and lichenous alley, as of yore, for to buy a flask of butter-milk from the pantiled merchant-house down by the sea-slopping flatfish harbour in that gabled and time-honoured towne of New Lynsmouth, skittering rain spattering my mottled flaxen cloak as the freshe wind stirred the darkened swirling waves of a black and deep-swirling sea-mor. 

 
  Ahh but who are we to choose our fates, upon this blue-green cloudy world, this honeysuckle marbled glistening globe of aery orbs and bronzen gods?  So let lute and lyre sound and winged feet trip light upon this flickering (...)

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