Cubicle

Last night I dreamt I had my own apartment. It was on the first floor, in the backside away from the main street. My flat was very small, condensed, and clean, and had everything I needed, a bed, a closet and a writing desk, all shimmering in a coat of white enamel. The carpet was glossy peppermint green like astroturf. The flat included a tiny balcony, nothing flattering, a mere concrete cubicle that I could only curiously access by climbing through the little window next to my bed. I climbed out and was snipped by the excitement of the distant urban view. Shiny cars and shiny people moved along the main street. The streetscape was as if coated by white chocolate, and I was a part of it, at least observing from a distance, detached yet incorporated. Then I looked across the row of balconies and noticed that the layer of concrete supporting each balcony was very thin. As I scrambled for the little window, the balcony floor slanted and cracked like melting ice-cream cake and I fell, thankfully, only from the first floor.