Our heads are just houses without enough windows
I am awake early for a rehearsal. I slept about five hours and managed one of those intensely plotted dreams of which I retain only a fragment like a movie trailer of a woman in a high-waisted white Empire gown running through a pre-dawn or dusk the same drowned blue as her eyes; she is stumbling down an empty road with clouds hanging over the fields and as she runs her face begins to stream like water or ectoplasm, coiling and thickening the air behind her. The funny thing is that it wasn't a nightmare, but I don't know what it was. I would have thought one thing if she was running toward the sea, but she wasn't.

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I wish I remembered more of it! The cinematography was great.
Also, I am watching the new-ish documentary on Ursula K. LeGuin and I think you ought to be much more comfortable in your "artistic trajectory," based on hers. I just wish yours came with a bit more money.
Thank you. (I'd like to see that; I know people in it.) Maybe it will eventually come with a concomitant level of fame.