The beauty of the encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table

My dreams have been full and ripe lately. Maybe it's because I sleep on a small and uncomfortable bed in a noisy Czech flat, far from anything I know, but, then again, I've heard the R-E-S-P-E-C-T by Aretha 3 days in a row, and in three different places. I ducked into a Cinska Restaurace to get out from under the thumb of this Soviet cold front that's been hitting the CR the last few days, and, in it, was the biggest fish I've ever seen in a tank, with the tank being only marginally bigger than the fish, itself. Maybe it's been too much for the kid, these last few weeks, but I could swear that the fish was turning a queer eye at me, as he bent in two to face the other direction, all without ever being more than a half-handful of inches from the far end of its world. A hoary czech in a tight green apron came out from the kitchen to see who had opened his door, allowing it to slam a little. I held up a finger, and he shrugged, motionioning internationally, to sit wherever the fuck I wanted. I sat by the fish and lit a cigarette to feel a little warmer. The fish seemed to be a little surprised that anyone was in the place, too. I unfolded the paper napkin that formed an adroit little teepee at my place seeting and allowed it to rest, prone. I smoked, and looked at the fish. Then, I smoked, and tried not to look at the fish. It's just that it was such a big fucking fish. The man never reappeared from the kitchen, and, after I stubbed out my smoke, I split. I felt like I should have stolen a bottle of something, just to feel famous. Instead, I ran through the cold, and, upon arriving, stripped off my layers of winter clothes, and settled for feeling like a waitress on vacation.
Like Rimbaud muttered, "It is necessary to be absolutely modern." On the obverse, I'd put my money on Lautremont in a streetfight.