Charlemaine

In the world of half-closed eyelids, the childmind stretches and yawns in tune at being wakened. It blinks and projects purple chiffonsmoke in strange intricate fold-unfolds; amorphous, fragile and neverlasting. The purple turns to blue turns to green as unfettered neurons make up their own story with the soft insistent force of child-dreams. The folds and un-folds shape themselves into fantastical isles and lagoons, each ruled by its own amorphous queen who changes her veil by the second. They wave; they dance; they bid you goodbye as the childmind retreats and sleep closes in.

"Useless." I throw down the pen. Surreal scribbles and long drawling phrases litter the sheets of paper before us, none of which will ever survive the walls of this room. He looks listlessly at me and fiddles with his wristband, his marker pen, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. "We have till tomorrow morning." It is 9.30pm. I don't want to count the exact number of hours till our gallows beckon. It's just a goddamn 30-second commercial; think. Think. It's what you were born to do. A covert glance at him reveals a picture of despondency. God, he was annoying sometimes. The sensitive artist. What bull. We are not in the business of art.

There will be times when you pay dearly for what you love. We had been warned, and remained stubborn. So convinced the script would shine and the storyboard would leap right off its mounting. To us, the opening scenes with the musical box and the magical house had held a world of significance. To them it had been 8 seconds of artistic wankery. Hopes dampened but not dead, he walked the grey concrete length from our client's office to his car, cradling the golden vision of carved gilt edges and tinkling music close to his heart. There was to be a way somehow. His sensitive, stubborn nature would see to it that the tiny silver bells we heard