(a pre-imagined scenario)
So the mad surgeon's plan tomorrow is to muster his troop of tools and tunnel thru a bit of backbone fascia and then find the pinched nerves and clear the area. There are ascending and descending levels of disks, and he relies on navigation coordinates. At the hot zone, he'll trim and scrape and vacuum out chunks of semi-hardened ooze from the ruptured disk.
It's a harvest of pain.
Meanwhile, I daydream of being able to reach up high and pick a few plump tomatoes from a vertical farm's top shelf. The stem fragrance goes on forever.
I put them in a basket (not too heavy a load though) and walk to the front of the greenhouse to pay the man for his nice hydroponic products. (The optimistic verbs here are "reach" and "walk.")
The owner is Russo-Finnish. His crayon-written store signs have strange Cyrillic letters and spelling and are phrased like Spenserian Stanzas.
Or prayer.
The mad surgeon has a name like a Mongolian warrior and is rotund and sincere and appears bodily strong, as an invading emperor should be.
I dream, floating on Propofol, of a tomato salad. With feta, olives, cauliflower bits, Oil & V.
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