Mr. K was a busy man. He had been busy for as long as he could remember and if he thought long and hard, he could remember a great deal. Needless to say, he hadn't a family. "Busy man like him," said his concerned middle-aged neighbour, "hasn't the time to breathe." Little did she know that her statement contained more truth than she could ever imagine. Mr. K never dreamt. He simply slumped into bed and feel asleep. Occasionally, on its way to another head, a dream would float past his. Nobody liked this particular phenomenon, particularly the people living inside Mr. K's head. Sometimes, if the dream was exceptionally inquisitive and mischievous, it would open the little door a little bit and peep to see the queer things that were constantly happening inside. The sudden crack of light would come as a bit of a shock to some of the older people living inside. Often one of them would fall off his chair and scream "Put that light out!" and shake his fist at the dream. The dream would promptly close the door but not before making a rude gesture. On such days, Mr. K would wake up with a headache that made his head seem like a volcano ready to erupt after centuries of dormancy. Understandably, he would break some of his china, kill a colony of ants that had been patiently building a enormous ant-hill in a corner of his garden and curse the human race in general. Then he would leave for work and would soon be too busy to remember anything about having a headache. On rare occasions, Mr. K felt a wee bit tired but he had learnt a cure for this a long time ago. The little bed-side table he had, had one drawer and in it was an old chess-set that Mr. K had been given on his seventeenth birthday. "There's nothing like a game of chess to clear the mind," his uncle had said and after all these years, Mr. K had found it to be an absolute truth. His tiredness would vanish as he played a game against himself. The mental fatigue would be magically transformed into a gnawing urge to destroy all the knights, pawns and castles in his path.
On rarer occasions, Mr. K felt sad. He called it sadness because he could not give it another name. In fact, it wasn't sadness at all. It was the feeling of sitting at the bottom of a dark, deep pit; of having nothing to see, smell, taste, hear or feel. It is one of the more complex emotions that humans feel and I shall not endeavour to explain it. It should, however, be said that chess failed to comfort Mr. K on these occasions. So it was that Mr. K lived on, without noticing how unremarkable his life had been, till the night this story begins.
None of it would have happened if Dream 150S6 (or Grouchy, as she is called) had not broken her shoes but she must not be blamed for two reasons: first, it had been a particularly rough night and Grouchy had had every reason to live up to her name and second, if she hadn't broken her shoes, it would have been just another night for everybody. What had happened was that Grouchy had lost her way a million times that night. (Or so it seemed to her. In truth, the number was closer to twelve.) Nevertheless, after finding the right head, she had terribly muddled up the procedure. It was a terrible head: full of dead ends, dark alleys and sounds that had made Grouchy jump. Just when when she'd thought that the worst was over, she had fallen off a plateau of some sort and into a great rubbish dump. Of course it had cushioned her fall but she had hit her leg on a big chunk of metal and broken her shoes. Dreams are not allowed to traverse the landscape barefoot and the most efficient dreams never leave a footprint but Grouchy had broken all the essential rules that night. "I had to get out, didn't I?", she would scream later on but it was in vain. An hour later, she received a brief note which said: Dreaming suspended until further notice. In her place, Dream T9081 was sent out for the very first time.
On rarer occasions, Mr. K felt sad. He called it sadness because he could not give it another name. In fact, it wasn't sadness at all. It was the feeling of sitting at the bottom of a dark, deep pit; of having nothing to see, smell, taste, hear or feel. It is one of the more complex emotions that humans feel and I shall not endeavour to explain it. It should, however, be said that chess failed to comfort Mr. K on these occasions. So it was that Mr. K lived on, without noticing how unremarkable his life had been, till the night this story begins.
None of it would have happened if Dream 150S6 (or Grouchy, as she is called) had not broken her shoes but she must not be blamed for two reasons: first, it had been a particularly rough night and Grouchy had had every reason to live up to her name and second, if she hadn't broken her shoes, it would have been just another night for everybody. What had happened was that Grouchy had lost her way a million times that night. (Or so it seemed to her. In truth, the number was closer to twelve.) Nevertheless, after finding the right head, she had terribly muddled up the procedure. It was a terrible head: full of dead ends, dark alleys and sounds that had made Grouchy jump. Just when when she'd thought that the worst was over, she had fallen off a plateau of some sort and into a great rubbish dump. Of course it had cushioned her fall but she had hit her leg on a big chunk of metal and broken her shoes. Dreams are not allowed to traverse the landscape barefoot and the most efficient dreams never leave a footprint but Grouchy had broken all the essential rules that night. "I had to get out, didn't I?", she would scream later on but it was in vain. An hour later, she received a brief note which said: Dreaming suspended until further notice. In her place, Dream T9081 was sent out for the very first time.
