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Five hundred mug shots and a hundred to one
I slept more than ten hours. I don't know if that was the trigger for the elaborate, anime-ish dream of conspiracies and powers in the late Austro-Hungarian Empire, but I was thoroughly enjoying it by the time I woke, despite having been obliged to go on the run with my computer, my cats, two pieces of jewelry that in waking life my parents never gave to me, and genderfluid semi-immortal Jared Harris. I appreciate my parents not being dead in the dream, because that's not usually the way going on the run with a supernatural conspiracy works in this genre. (My mother gave the semi-immortal conspirators political advice for her exit line.) It is also true that if I discovered myself to be one of the keys of a long game of free will and future-shaping, I wouldn't just leave my cats behind when the confectionary hotel got blown up by people who could turn gravity into time and matter into light. Harris feels like my brain just internalized him as Loki, even though I have seen him generally as very male and very mortal figures indeed, but he was splendid, including when she. I was reading Neil Astley's Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times (2002) before bed, but I don't see how that explains it. Anyway, it was great.
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They were!