I’m slouched in the back of an Uber, synced into the rhythm of the streetlights passing above. Two guys sat next to me chatting over funky house radio playing lightly in the background. I don’t know who. We’re being driven somewhere, I don’t know where. The smell of downed spirits and aftershave. There’s a girl in the front seat adjusting her make-up in a hand mirror. Check my phone: Nikola, driver rating 4.8. Everything feels utterly pointless, like a dream. It may as well be a dream. “Is that a risk you’re willing to take?” one of the lads sat next to me asks the other one. A scouse accent. Better watch my wallet, I’m thinking, and I drift into my own head and miss the other lad’s answer. Doesn’t matter. Makes me wonder though. If we think in dreams, then are dreams themselves physically occurring? If so, what is the thought inside a dream made of? Or from where does it arrive? How many layers of bullshit are we on? Where is all this going? I think there was a dream of London once, a thousand years ago. William The Conqueror probably came through here on his horse. Right by that all-night McDonald’s over there. Mad lad.

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