I would like to eat a cloud; eat your tongue from within your mouth; eat your entire body like an eclair, and cream spewing and wet. I would like to eat your hair, strand by strand, one at a time, all of it. I would like to eat your teeth, swallow each one like a small pill; eat your skin, peeling it off like a banana split; I would like to eat your blood like drip it over my whole body and lick it off. I would like to eat each finger and toe, bite them off of your breathing squirming body and chew them and swallow them, bones and all. I would like to eat your thoughts: the good ones, the pure ones, the dark ones, the damp ones, the ones that you don't acknowledge or really even think are there. I would like to eat your dreams and your desires that only manifest in your sleep or in the back of your mind when you're not really doing anything else: washing your hair or watching television. I would like to eat each part of you. I would like to eat your hopes, your fears, your tension, your relief. I would like to eat a cloud.
An Untitled Play Posthumously Written by Philip K Dick
A script for 8-27 players.
Presented as a cold table-read at Spaceness2016, Sou'wester, Seaview, WA.