There’s a curtain we pass through at night and it leads into dream. The land of dreams is a magnificent place, bested by reality only by its lack of enduring tangibility. By any other standard, the land of dreams is more desirable. No boundaries, pure possibility. It can be a scary place and a joyous one but it is never less than marvellous.

I meet people in my dreams that I’ve long kissed goodbye. In my dreams they return and my waking self wonders why, recalls them, and makes me wonder how they are and why I no longer see them, even if my waking self sometimes knows exactly why.

Tonight the land of dreams is overrun by zombies, and the people I’m with at that chance moment when all hell breaks loose become the only ones that matter. Was it my choice or was it just the apocalypse?

I see you guys that I’ve been seeing an unusual lot of lately; and I see you, girl, that I did not see for so long. Yet there you are, stuck with us, as we flee the party and drive away from imminent danger, hoping to outrun the unrelenting undead.

Is there a meaningful connection between dreams and reality? Is that pocket universe ever so personal born from experience relevant to reality? Were I to tell you of this dream, would you berate me for not making it into my posse of survivors? Does it say something about you and I that you were not there?

My mind picks ingredients seemingly at random as it sets me on a ride in the land of dreams. The hierarchy of its building blocks is beyond my control. Is it just chance and recent experiences, or do they cross with a canyon of deep, undeniable truth?

The dream is directed by zombie movies, that much is evident. Our rag-tag bunch of survivors – who normally would never be together for so long, so close – seems casually selected but actually quite cleverly cast. This merry band of humans is picked from some significant pieces of me. And we ride.

We’re in danger together, and some of us don’t make it. Such scenes are really heartbreaking, even though in hindsight I feel like I ought to have been thinking of closer people’s fates; but they didn’t enter with us in this dream. And look – now my good friend is lost, he didn’t make the jump, got bitten by the zombies, and he’s gone.

Fear takes hold. I kill a friend in an impulse. My gut tells me he was infected, but I act before I’m sure. I keep the secret to myself as we head elsewhere and it weighs on me like no conscious choice ever has. We are together, yet our group is getting smaller. We reach a safe zone – we reflect, we restock.

The land of dreams picks up random bits from reality. That vendor’s waffles look surreally delicious, and how convenient, he sells vacuum cleaners too. Surely a band on the run has no need for such equipment, but I realise that only a wee bit later, pushed by a bit of reason that creeps in from the waking world. I notice that the vendor has spit on his waffles, so we forget about those and move on in search of our peace; a place where we can take a breather and realise what was lost.

And as we ride you and I are in the back of the car, and we look each other in the eye as I think of all these things, and I wonder how you’ve been.

Honey mustard is the new pomegranate.

Received from brother J.:

Belgium claims New York 400 years late.

It’s like “Previously, on Neighbour.” Our series finale is coming up, and he’s performing the live action variant of a clip show covering the highlights of what happened so far. It’s a strange idea, but somehow I get the feeling my neighbour is going to miss me.

As soon as I enter he pops out to greet me. Half clothed and full of pride, he tucks at his belt and gives me the self-satisfied look he displays every now and then.

“Listen up, I won again. 100 Euros for travelling, not too shabby, eh? Hold on, let me show you. Stay right there.”

He pops into his flat, closing his door behind him, and pops back out a little later with a letter.

“You gotta help me out here, you need to go on the Internet and get it for me. It says you can call too, but I’ve been trying that number all day without any luck. Here, take a look.”

As I’m reading the letter from the travel agency inviting him to a 100 Euro discount on his next booking, he mumbles some things about computers and email, but I focus on the print.

“Sorry man,” I tell him, “but I think it’s a bit of a scam. You don’t get 100 Euros, just a discount on a booking. Unless you want to book a trip?”

He looks disappointed.

“Just that, huh? Well, that’s bullshit then. Oh well, better than nothing at all. See ya.”

I close the door behind me in my flat, drop my bag and jacket and fall down on my sofa. Pondering what to do next I hear the bell ring.

“Look what else I got!” He’s waving another letter in front of me, than comes to my side and holds it in front of my face. He points at the words as he reads them.

“Four new dvds per month, for a period of 12 months, by TV Spielfilm.”

He’s told me about this on two previous occasions, actually, but I guess now I have proof.

“Yeah, yeah, you mentioned that,” I tell him. “That’s awesome man.”

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that I’m leaving, but for the first time I find myself actually looking at his tattoos. There’s one on his right upper arm of a Viking woman. The other one is one the inside of his left arm and is harder to make out. It looks like a barrel with some sort of Viking crest on it. Both have that faded blue look that aged tattoos get.

About twenty minutes later, my peace is once more disturbed by the doorbell. This time he’s carrying a cardboard box filled with bottles of olive oil. There’s a smaller box on the floor, as a teaser, while my neighbour builds up the suspense.

“Do you like olive oil? Look here, I got six bottles of it as a prize. That’s expensive, you know. Really good stuff, I like olive oil. In fact, I just made a tomato salad with it. Here you go, take one.”

Olive oil is hard to say no to, so I accept the gesture and thank him for it.

“I also got this… hold on a second.” He puts the box down and picks up the smaller one. He pulls out a porcelain dispenser, which indeed looks quite nice.

“See that? Not too shabby, eh. It dispenses the olive oil. You know you always have to give olive oil some air. It needs the oxygen for its full flavour. So you pour it into here, and you can keep it there and then dispense it. That’s Italian, you know, it doesn’t get much better than that.”

I admire his dispenser and once more thank him for the oil, but because of that transaction I cannot make myself be the one to break up this chat. So he continues.

“I really like olive oil. I also got a lot of cheese. Would you like some?”

“Thanks man, but I don’t really like cheese.”

“Why not?” He looks stunned.

“I don’t know, I just don’t like it.”

He eyes me with curiosity. “I like all kinds of cheese, Gouda, Edammer – it doesn’t necessarily have to be Dutch, although Dutch cheese is much better than German cheese. I like French too, do you want some?”

“Nah, thanks man, I don’t really like cheese.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t like the taste of it.”

He looks at me with a hint of disgust. “You’re spoiled, you. Cheese is one of the best things in the world. Well, whatever, you have a good night and fuck off.”

Later that evening I go downstairs to get my laundry out of the machine, and as I return to our domain he sticks his face and a hand out the door and hands me a box of orange juice.

“Take that,” he says, “Bio orange juice. That’s the best orange juice money can buy.”

And he closes his door.

Ten minutes later, he rings again.

It’s interesting how your tolerance to something annoying grows when you know for a fact that it’s coming to an end, but perhaps it’s also a little more complex than that.

This time he’s holding a little white box with a familiar watch in it.

“Do you have a watch, hmm?”

I do indeed, though I’m not wearing it. “Aw man, yeah, you already gave me one of those.”

“And does it still work?”

“Uhm, yeah, yeah, it does, but you know, I never wear a watch. I usually use my mobile phone, actually.”

“But it still works doesn’t it? That watch will last a 100 years, you won’t even live that long!”

“I suppose not.”

He looks at me, and he looks a little sad.

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

I probably should just take it, but instead I politely refuse.

“Well,” he says, hiding his disappointment. “It was well-meant. I got plenty of watches, you know – gold ones even, but I’m not giving you those.”

“That’s alright man,” I say. “Thanks for offering though.”

“Alles klar. Fick dich.”

And we close our doors.

The light of the territories was different from light as he remembered it, but he was grateful for it all the same. Crossing the swamp was proving to be a treacherous affair as it was; the boy shuddered to think of traversing it in darkness.

He’d bound a sleeve of his shirt around his nose and mouth to keep the foul gases around him from crawling in, but he carried nothing that could cushion the blow for his eyes: that which stretched before him a toxic, bubbly wasteland permeating the mind of the beholder with its all-hope-abandoned misery. Scraps of prey and bits of bone left behind by wildly violent predators quite possibly lurking somewhere near, and dark, dying tree trunks holding up their branches in despair; the air around them thick with fleshy bugs hovering in place, lazily waiting for warm blood to pass by.

It was a taxing journey of slow and careful steps as he kept prodding the swamp’s every inch with a weathered branch, searching for the next best little harbour. Thankfully there appeared to be many spots where he could rest his weary legs from time to time – solid ground not just being a respite from the wading itself, but also from the eerie sensation of invisible things slithering around his legs in the murky soup below.

The boy had been resting for a little bit, dipping into his rations as he sat watching from the vantage point of a tree stump, when he saw the man approaching. It was an old man, clearly, but he appeared to be in good condition; his steady progress between patches of soil halted only by the diminished confidence in the body that comes with old age. His clothes were smudged and tattered, but they were of fine materials and signified a culture in stark contrast with the vile natural forces at play here. The old man’s face looked worn, and possessed like that of hunted prey. Who knew how far he had been travelling?

It wasn’t long before the old man noticed the boy, too, up in that dying tree, and if the fear of a god was what had been propelling him thus far, it must have been the god’s scorned spouse that took hold of him now. Mortified he waved for the boy to come down, hissing, “Come down, you fool! They’re going to see us!”

But the boy wavered, stunned as he was.

The old man was getting more upset with every moment passing, frantically waving his arms, urging the boy to come down. “What’s wrong with you, dimwit? Get down here, NOW!”

And still the boy wavered, because the thing that was rising out of the swamp behind the old man was the most hideous and terrifying monster the boy had ever laid eyes on. And all it had shown him so far was its mouth.

Our next-door days are numbered. I will be moving house soon and then my neighbour will be my neighbour no more.

I’ve actually been dreading to tell him, worried that telling him will make him more adamant than ever to have me over for dinner. But as the day approaches there’s no beating around the bush anymore; there are people coming to see my apartment, and I break the news gently.

“I see, I see…” he says, pensively stroking his bare belly and taking a swig of his beer. “You know, I can’t blame you. She was in here again, you know, that thieving landlady of ours. Stole several of my things. Won’t be long before I leave either, I’m not stupid. No, I ain’t.”

He lets out a sigh.

“Anyway, I thought you should know,” I say. “Some people are gonna come over to see the place tonight.”

“Well, good for you man. Just make sure you give me your new address.”

He goes back into his apartment, and I figure I got off easy enough. I’ll weasel my way out of giving him my new address one way or another. I’ll find a new tenant and bring an end to our era.

My doorbell rings 8 o’clock sharp, and I’m all ready to let the first visitor in. I check our hallway and close my neighbour’s bathroom door. It’s just not the best first impression to give off when you’re trying to convince someone to move in.

She turns out to be a pretty young black girl who’s brought her little brother along. We’re halfway through introductions when my neighbour swings his door wide open and sticks his half-clad self out of the doorframe. He eyes the girl up and down and whistles in appreciation. Wonderful.

I quickly coax them into my abode and close the door. “Never mind him,” I say. “This is where the place starts.” I show them around the flat that I spent hours cleaning until it sparkled. I’m willing to bet that they’ve forgotten all about that little run-in with my neighbour after they’ve seen what a nice apartment it is.

There is however another apartment available just upstairs, and as I lead them out of my quarters, I notice that the bathroom door is open again. As we pass, my hope is flushed. There sits my neighbour, still shirtless, his pants around his ankles, yelling “Helloooooo!” and waving with the one hand that isn’t holding the toilet paper.

I’m moving house, but it won’t be today. This changes nothing though. One way or another, our tale is coming to an end.

Time had been trying to play its tricks on him from the moment he’d entered the territories, but he was still wise enough to recall his teachings. And thus while the cycles of darkness and the hints of dawn came and went with maddening randomness, he consciously chose not to worry as he silently sat with the creature.

A single attempt at conversation was all he wasted, but the strange animal’s trance was not to be broken. It was hard to tell if anything was happening at all, but keeping the faith seemed like a good bet. It was too dark to see far into the distance, yet the smell that travelled across the plains suggested something so foul he welcomed the time it took the creature to do its business.

Then without warning, it simply rose to its feet, opening a sparkling pair of eyes. And in a single instant it shed all its black feathers as that brightness faded.

“You may now proceed,” it said with a voice that sounded less hoarse and far deeper than the one he recalled. “The path will be clear. But make no mistake. If I see you again I am entitled to slay you. And I reckon I would.”

He rose to his feet as well, ready to strike with his bare hands if necessary, but the danger didn’t seem immediate.

“I am required to leave you with some advice, however.”

He looked at the creature apprehensively, asking, “How much good can the advice be of that which has intent to slay me?”

“That much is up to you.” The creature inspected its pale, naked flesh and shivered. “I will provide it regardless. Where you’re going next, appearance is everything. It’s important that you let your eyes deceive you. It’s the only way you stand a chance of passing through the right gate.”

The creature then looked around, seeking something it could not find. It went on, fixing its eyes upon him. “Most importantly, be wary of rising to the top. The real danger dwells in the attic.”

And with that, it started pecking at the sand, swiftly digging itself a hole.

“Where are you going?” he asked, hesitant to be left behind. “Where do I go next?”

The creature looked up from its pit. “Never mind where I’m going. These are not your lands, boy. Don’t ever think they will be.”

Deeper and deeper it dug until it had almost disappeared into the ground below, when it stuck its head out one last time, taking the boy in with its dull eyes. “You want to hear something strange? I was like you once. Very much like you.”

And then it disappeared, and the wind slowly summoned the sand to undo its digging. But as the boy watched the hole disappear from reality, he noticed something grander changing.

Light was coming to the sky, bringing colour into the territories, blending with the smells that had been licking his nostrils, illuminating the endless ocean of swamp that separated him from the gates on the horizon.

Clutching the white rock in his pocket he stood, staring at the gates. There was no sense of urgency, no need to make haste. He would either succeed at his task eventually, or not at all, and in that case nothing would change. The world would continue as it was – as children were being raised to believe it always had been.

As he was about to set off again, he spotted a large animal swiftly hopping towards him in the distance. He couldn’t tell what it was from afar, but even as it drew closer he was no more able to determine its nature. The creature was jumping on two legs like a kangaroo, but looked more like an oversized chicken, leaving black feathers in its trail.

He braced himself, knowing there was no point in running, as the strange creature approached swiftly. Looking around he saw nothing nearby that could serve as a worthy form of defence – the branches on rotten tree trunks seemingly desperate to disintegrate at the first merciful tug. Still, he waited.

The creature halted several feet in front of him with a single last hop in spite of its speed. Up close he perceived that while it adhered to all the bodily features of a very voluptuous chicken, its head was far more akin to that of an old-looking owl. And it spoke.

“I have good news and bad news,” it said, speaking with a hoarse voice in a dull tone. “The bad news is that you will never get to see your children. The good news is that eventually you will no longer care.”

It paused, presumably to give him time to ponder these tidings, but it soon continued with a definite sense of urgency, eager to waste no more time than necessary.

“You have something that belongs to us. Show it to me.”

Still clutching the white rock he slowly moved his hand out of his pocket, and as he held it out in front of him, the sun briefly caught the stone’s surface. At the same moment, something inside the creature’s dull black eyes flared up for an instant.

“You wish to proceed then?” it said, waiting for him to answer. He nodded.

“Very well.” No sooner did the creature speak the words then it moved its beak towards the rock and swallowed it whole in a single gulp. Instantly it took a couple of steps backwards and sat down in the sand.

“I must ask you to be patient,” it said with a voice even more hoarse than before. “This is going to take a while.”