The Junkie and His Dreams - draft

There lived a junkie in Amsterdam. Everybody knew him simply as Junkie. Everything about him was junk: his thoughts always in a mess, his looks untidy and raggy.
But he was nonetheless a loveable, outgoing kind of guy, who quite a few people fancied having an occasional chat with. You could discuss almost anything with him.
Never an ardent supporter of any particular club, he was tops when it came to Eredivisie punditry. What’s more, he always tried to follow Oranje as far as he could go, and of course attended the home matches, but no one believed he could actually afford it. Because it was a well-known fact that he had no official job. You aren’t gonna call soothsaying, juggling bottles and streetart a proper job, are you?
He was quite a foodie, too. It was him who arrived first at almost all major food festivals - ranging from chocolate fairs in Brussels to herring days in ports to beerfests in Germany, Denmark and England. Again, no one could get their head around how on earth it was possible for such a junkie to travel that far. Far in terms of Europe, that is.
So a junkie he was, alright. But there was something about him that attracted people to interact with him, to follow him on his travels or to join him in his daily routines. The latter were obviously so different from those of a normal, average person. Junkie’s routines were listening to music, smoking weed, sunbathing and having an occasional meal - of fish and chips or hamburger mostly.
He couldn’t really distinguish between the dreams he saw at night, daydreaming haze and his thoughts that were flying around his head (and rarely did they choose to stay there, it should be noted). All of this, made up a rather odd, yet intrinsically harmonious, goliath, leviathan or, for a lack of better word, golem of consciousness.
Orange tulips grew peacefully side-by-side with penguins and alligators. The Moon’s surface was blue and turquoise rivers were flowing there, with brightly-coloured wooden huts, cabins and bungalows scattered all around. There, ants, dwarves and platypus were sawing, digging, planting, raking, chopping, quilting and doing a number of other useful and respectable jobs. Back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder. Against lavishly pinkish-crimson, vanilla sky. Dotted with pearly goldish-azure clouds and two lemongrass green Suns - one orbiting around the other.
When he told of those dreams to others (and it was an act of both courage and light-mindedness, for one doesn’t see many people sharing their dreams easily with friends, let alone perfect strangers) they were struck by two things. Mostly. First, how such a lazy ass of a man could see so much industry, vigour and purposefulness? Was it a king of Freudian sublimation, that’s to say, he did want to work and be helpful and useful to the society, but something just barred him from applying his energy in this world. It might well be that it was for the world’s sake. That energy - positive or niggative - had better stay inside, where it originated, belonged, and keep twirling, tearing apart and creatively destructing his mind and inner world. The second thing which raised a decent quantity of eyebrows was that people couldn’t believe how he was capable of remembering everything so perfectly well (and that dream above is just a small sample of what that mental jam had visions of) with his mind and body, both crucial to sanity, so obviously intoxicated and abused. Like the drugs he took.
But Junkie simply went on relating his dreams to all who would listen (surprisingly great numbers they were, but few really heard what was being said).