Tabula Rasa

Unexpectedly, he felt warm sand beneath his feet, not the plush carpet he thought was once there. Under the gentle moonlight, a white horse galloped past with a monkey sprawled on its flank, scowling at the night sky, a cigarette clinging loosely to its pursed lips. He blinked twice, rubbed his eyes with a gentle violence, and attempted to turn his head to retreat back upstairs. Like an owl, the rest of his neck stayed in place. A hoot escaped his beak. He spanned his wings and flew to the moon - glistening, and silver, and bright. As quickly as they materialised, his wings all at once disappeared and he plummeted to the Earth's core. Scathing blisters enveloped his torso, searing and bright, and he awoke with a scream. He looked down at his hands in horror. To his relief, they were made of skin, and veins, and a wispy covering of hair. He felt a neck that followed his head when he turned. A dream. It was all a peculiar dream. He rose from his bed, the night-terror teasing a dryness to his mouth, when for a second, he swore he could hear a dusting of sand in the breeze.