I’m dreaming of a pop star. I’m trapped in an auditorium. I was having a nap in here and now the doors are all blocked off with security. I can’t get out. They are holding back a sombre line of the masses. The clock strikes some hour. The masses are let into the building. They file in like zombies. They are not an unruly mob. They are not excited or giddy or aggressive. They are frightening in their placid faces and calm greyness. They are grey. The masses take their seats. They look like they are here for a church service. For a funeral service. They are here for a pop show. I take a seat in the front row. I’m front-row-centre for a pop disaster. The pop star comes onto the stage. She is not dressed like a pop star on stage, but more like a pop star caught by the paparazzi out shopping for candy and slushies at the 7-11. She moves around. Something that is supposed to resemble dancing? She doesn’t sing but her voice is projecting over the speakers. She doesn’t have any back-up dancers; no lights either. Just like everyone else in the venue, she doesn’t smile. She has no expression. She takes long periods of time backstage between songs. The masses wait patiently. There is a virus in the air. A grey virus. Everything is sickly. I’m dreaming of a pop show. I’m dreaming of a pop star. I’m dreaming of you Britney.