O amante smunta di morti

Dear brain. What is is about listening to Puccini's Turandot (1957, Maria Callas; Elizabeth Schwartzkopf; Eugenio Fernandi) and reading John Le Carré's The Perfect Spy before bed that leads you to dream about blond-haired boy whores and then bringing one of them to the tombs of my ancestors so that he (who was, really, only male about half the time) can stab with a rapier down into one of the unmarked graves? You do know that I don't have an ancestral cemetery? And that even if I did, I've kind of assumed it wouldn't produce malignant possessing spirits? I mean, I could be sympathetically biased, but still—and do I look like I have the money for a string of boy whores? No, I don't get it either. I'm going back to Lucan now. It's safer.