Magenta tossed and turned, flitting in and out of strange dreams. Rhymin Simon spouting poems about crystalline cloud forms, cointreau, capes and tarot cards.

Her head was pounding like a military march, her mouth was dry, very dry.

soft music was floating into the room, there was a crack in the curtians - ugghhh - that light was killing her.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

No, Simon, leave me, I've got a terrible headache. God - I'm so thirsty - I could drink a river of blood.

Simon paused, nonplussed. Why the hell did she sat that?