CRIMSON, NEON NIRVANA
I awoke last night to the feeling of a soft cool hand on my cheek, a hand which belonged to a platinum-haired maiden draped in satin which seemed to flow from and define her very form. Velvety soft strains from unseen harps gently caressed my ears, and made me realize that for the first time in my existence there were no problems which demanded my immediate attention, no obligations to tax my conscience, and no enigmas to unwrap. After glancing around, I observed that the purple clouds upon which I was floating allowed me to levitate above the endless and spaceless expanse of nothing which stretched from one end of the universe to the other, blanketing the cosmos with its cavernous emptiness. My first reaction must have been the one Jonah had when he found himself swallowed by the whale—a reaction coupling fear and surprise.

The female accompanying me on this bizzare voyage was intent on caressing my face until it dissolved into nothingness, as evidenced by her nimble fingers gently strumming the sensitive zones of my cheek and neck. Her gentle cooing mingled pleasantly with the melodious harps, the music from which seemed to come from everyplace and noplace at the same time. My nudity was quite pleasant in vew of the fact that my surroundings were heated to what I figured was the optimum temperature for human satisfaction. All of my inhibitions had evaporated like so many drops of water on a hot skillet. I felt absolutely no guilt being alone with this beautiful woman (in view of the fact I am divorced) and wondered what I would do with her once I found out where I was. Finally, I got up the nerve to ask my fellow drifter where I was, but her incessant cooing precluded her from saying anything which made any kind of human sense. Suddenly, from one corner of the infinite, came heading straight for
me at what had to be at least the speed of light, a huge carmine colored neon sign. I took my eyes off the female I was with, and concentrated on the object which was hurling at me with disturbing velocity. It seemed to be on a direct collision course with me and although it was still a good light year or two away, I could sense that if I didn't change my course I would be involved in a bloody and violent accident that could ruin my newfound nirvana. Two hundred miles. Eighty miles! Closer. Closer! The

Albums

• New York City Community College Yearbook, 1978