How much closer to the end of the rope am I?

Cold wind tugs at my legs.  I'm hiding under a walkway, hiding from rain.  Like some Einsteinian brain-teaser, I can't tell if I am abandoned or abandoning.

"Where's our game?" he said.  "Where is it?"

It's hiding with the copy chimp.

My sister loved men with bad teeth.  Freud would have approved.  "All my dreams recur; everything gets dreamt twice.  It's like I'm dreaming in Hawaiian."  I can see a man on a ledge, sitting there like a bag of apples.  Someone's blowing a blues harp nearby.  The fountain across from me sporates mist.  The cold wind child is still tugging at my pant leg.  "Come on, Mister.  Let's play.  Let's play Blue."

Blue.  The game everyone can play, everyone does play, sooner or later.  It's like Jacks; if there are rules written down somewhere, it's in a book everyone ignores.

Blue.  Machines are grown, not made.  And when they stop, they're blue.

I'm sitting now on blue stones, rounded and raised, set in cement.  Their ants will roll between them.  Conscious and unconscious thoughts roll in my head.  Negative space, like The Great Wave.  One wave does not exist, but which one?

The tide's gone out, leaving me here on the rocks.  The world spins, turning its back on the sun.  See into the dark.  In its coldness is a face.  Negative space.  (Dreaming in Hawaiian again.)

A cold blue Hawaiian dream that all the heat and humidity only amplifies.  A loud blue Hawaiian broadcast like a fresh crash of static across Radio Zero.

Hanged man hangs.  His face turns red, then blue, then black.  The face is pale again.   Around him, the swaying dream again erupts.