These are your revelers. They've pulled acetate from video cassettes and are running through streets with their arms full of these streamers. And the cellulose shines in almighty colors in the sunlight. The cellulose swallows the din of their joy. Nothing like this will last. To dream en masse like this is to watch the ramparts blaze.
To dream as the revelers pour pass the state houses and past the human debris is to watch the oxidation of the Empire happen overnight.
This will not happen to you. The world is full of dreams spinning around their reels. In this cell, a man lifts a glass. In this cell, he is still lifting a glass. In this cell, there is a hand on a glass, and the glass rises.