dressed in my octarine cloak i wander down to the market where tradespeople peddle their wares, gifts, trinkets, pet monkeys jump and somersault, birds chirp and hoot, colour explodes into the visual kaleidoscope and faces loom out from the crowd, one is particularly noticeable for she appears familiar and somewhat safe. she asks me what book i am carrying, it's fortuna's mystical qabalah and she expresses delight, asking me questions, then elaborates on her walking excursion, eight k's a day, 'wow, i exclaim, that would take at least a day.' she laughs and we talk about our dogs that are involved in some canine mating ritual. we swap numbers, names and some peripheral information, arianna which means holy, she talks of greek myth and mentions an island i am familiar with, we skim implanted memory of places we have never physically been, mine of athens, hers of paris, she tells me she wants to open a kabbalah centre then we enter the void of the multitude, she sends me a text later saying she has been to my house before as a water consultant or something, i have a vague memory of my landlady organising some one to assess the water in mission control many years ago. 
the market place tires me and i stroll home with the dog, contemplating my day, getting ready for the challenge ahead. i watch a film called the illusionist, i enjoy it, but fall asleep halfway through, dreaming about a friend of mine, wondering why she has come back to haunt me again. it's a good dream actually and when i wake up i feel refreshed. mmm, shame its bedtime.