The Parallel Testimonials

She’s sitting comfortably on the vintage couch, while watching the daily show from the squared smart television. Since there’s already high-speed internet connectivity routed and plugged from the nearest cyber-optic pools near her house, she never register any cable pre-subscribed-channels anymore. All the program is streamed demandingly, based on her choices towards specific show.

Suddenly, at a blinked of eyes’ sights, she already laying down in a wooden-crafted boat, sculpted by the greatest carpenter ever. Peacefully, she’s floating upon this kind of flawless fluid surface, which never made from any water, nor air, but cotton-candy like texture, so sweet yet so tender and fragile at the very same first touch. She’s fingering an index part of her hands, tapping and knocking the sense of such gentle essence. Like opening another swapped of whole new perspectives, her boat got upside-down reversely by 180 degrees of curve.

And there she is, right in the middle of radiant reddish ocean, like a silky-satin fabric of salmon sashimi color-scheme, departed all the unease mood she ever felt before. There’s no fishy, nor stingy odor from the supposed-to-be-salty water, yet, by all of her thirst, she grasped by her whole two palms a cup of juicy yet savory tasted on her hands, gulped through her craving mouth, passing the adam’s apple which she never have on her throat, in one exhale of relieved ¬†satisfaction.

Then she got unconscious, drunken by the forbidden fluid, brought her from twisted lucid dreamy realm, back to the hyperbolic reality of dramatic life, awaken by the end of televised programed, crowded by thousand ants in front of her smart-flat-screen-above-eighty-inch-fiberglass-palate-electronic-device.

What could be more frantic parallel testimonials, than a post-blackout condition?

Sincerely,
TradeMark
*Taufan.