Pillow Fighting With Derrida

In a present that does not yet exist, I am.

Suppose there is a pillow fight. Now suppose this pillow fight to be outside the context of a regular pillow fight, which is to say it is not contained by the simple ideals of the ordinary pillow fight: four prepubescent girls exploring the limited capacities of their respective sexualities. Let's say there are instead 800 college educated post-teens. Assume both of us are there. Consider our respective pillows: mine, synthetic fiber sheathed in a layer of golden silk; yours, all downy and white.

Now hear the starting bell.

Notice the assault. Sense their coming: from behind the columns, the potato shaped rock, down the stairs. Feel each attack mold to shape the body part it hits. Take away bits of each other as you hit and are hit. Now detect a slight wind moving toward your body. Flash forward to the ground, bleeding from your head. Before you nod off notice the spectral image of Derrida. He is in pastoral yellow pajamas with thin white stripes. In his right hand he has a pillow that depicts the top half of his head. Blood drips slowly off its forehead.

He will remember you now, but only when he dreams.