A/N:  I'm back!  Sort of.  This is a strange little impressionistic piece, but it's all I had time to write (for now).  Keep Beatle-ing everybody :0D

*BZZZT!* That damn alarm clock . . . **BZZZT!** fumble, slap . . . silence . . . .

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The doorknob clicks, hinges creak. Snuggle down deep, don't wanna wake up . . . Footsteps on floorboards, the snap of a shade flung up, yellow sunlight dances in why oh why is it morning, put out that light . . .

John groaned incoherently and pulled his pillow over his head. It didn't have the instant muffling effect he'd hoped for. Realizing that he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep again, John desperately groped for the last few lacy wisps of dreams that clung to the forgotten corners of his mind. Something about a river, sparkling sunlight, rows and rows of juicy purple grapes dangling from vines –

A hand jostled the young man's shoulder.

 "Get up, you great lazy lump!" said John's friend. His affectionate joking filtered heavily through the thick pillow. John groped blindly through his own head, searching for something that was no longer there. Sunlight on running water?

The pillow was yanked off John's face, and John blinked blearily up at the fuzzy tan blob above him.

"We're supposed to be at the airport in an hour! Hurry up!" demanded the blob. It extended a blobbish appendage, tan and black, toward John's face. John scrunched his eyes closed and made a face. Little crusts of sleep clung to his eyelashes. The blob stuck something cool and plastic – glasses – onto John's face, and John tentatively peeped open one eye.

The blob resolved itself into mop-topped Paul, who looked torn between laughter and anxiety.

"If we miss the plane, Brian'll kill us," groaned Paul, settling on anxiety.

"What're you doing in my house?" inquired John, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning back against the headboard.

"Blimey, you must've drunk more last night than I thought," replied Paul, yanking open the closet door and rifling around inside. "You insisted I stay here." The bassist tossed John a pair of trousers. They landed on his feet. He stared at them blankly.

Last night broke through a crumbling dam and rushed through John's conscious mind, flooding the dusty rooms in which John had just been searching for his lost dream. No chance of recovering it now.

John groaned. "I didn't drink anything, that's just the trouble."

"What d'you mean, you didn't drink anything?" asked Paul, fishing the rest of John's suit out of the closet and throwing it at him.

John pulled the haphazard ball of clothing off his face and tossed the tie back at the fully-dressed McCartney. "I mean Cyn substituted all the wine with grape juice. Didn't you notice?"

Paul burst out laughing. The sound rang through the bedroom, mingling effortlessly with the birdsong outside. "I knew there was something funny about that wine!"

John yawned noisily and clambered out of bed. He blinked down at his boxer shorts, then pulled his trousers on over them.

Paul paced up and down the room while John finished dressing.

"Ready?" Paul asked, handing John back his tie.

John nodded and tied the tie around his forehead like a bandanna. "Let's do this," he said with mock seriousness.

A day was begun. Sometimes John wondered why he only remembered the unimportant part.

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a dove cooed in the orange sunset over the river. the river trickled, ran, giggled, gasped, hurried, danced, tumbled, and picked itself up again, across smooth, round, grey pebbles. tossed along with the current: a toy sailboat, not finely made, water pooling through little cracks in its belly. a little toy man (not a doll, boys don't play with dolls, never a doll) rode in the boat, just along for the ride. not caring about whether it would sink.

he doesn't care if it'll sink, does he? he'll be alright?

auntie looks down, pensive, but her face is blurry.

sunny orange shines through green leaves and bounces off luscious purple grapes. grab one, pop it in the mouth, the skin breaks, juicy sweetness floods the mouth with a taste far sweeter than dime candy.

tug, tug on the sleeve. can we go home now, auntie? I'm tired.

going home, glance over shoulder: little toy boat sinking.