Andrés Vaccari

He dreamed. Dreaming was for free and perfectly unproductive. In the dream it was the Future®. In the Future® everything looked strange to him. For a start it was all monochrome, and it took him some time to work out this was because everything—the buildings, the clothes and faces of passerbys, the roads, cars, his own hands and body—was made of the same material: a brown, drab, fleshy substance that was warm and rubbery to the touch. Even the sky was made of this stuff. Brown clouds drifted over a sun that looked like a ball of fur hanging from a dark celestial canopy and emitted a low, brown luminescence over the Future®. He looked down at his shoes; they seemed to merge with the sidewalk. Feeling his jacket and skin, he saw that the substance also had a cover of fine fur. A brown, fleshy car passed by. He opened a slippery, wobbly door. In a soft mahogany room he was making love to a brown girl who disappeared into his sofa. He caressed the hairs on her skin. He leaned closer and saw them, tiny and bristly, growing on everything in the world, the primoridal substance of the universe.

He saw a logo: FutureCorp.