Soon came a day when the bottle was broken

I have just walked home from Brattle Street. This is the second car accident I've been in in less than a week. The first was a friend's car and an off-duty cop's, this latest was the bus to Arlington Heights and an overeager SUV, and in neither case was I driving—fortunately, neither was anyone injured, although my neck may sue me for damages if I keep this up. muchabstracted recently informed me that the prophet Elijah is one of the patron saints of motorists. Frankly, I feel like their Jonah.

Last night I dreamed for the first time in almost a month that I can remember. I was Death, in a candlelit synagogue, with a dark robe and a sword. I don't remember who I had come for. I think there was a wedding taking place.

As I walked back around the Arlington Res, I passed three teenagers and a black dog on a leash. The dog had just been barking enthusiastically after a jogger, such that its owner had to keep it from dashing after her. I walked past and suddenly it whined and cowered back against the boy. I've never had that reaction from a dog before.

If I were writing a story, I would make something of this. Instead, I think I'm going to call the number the bus driver gave me. And then maybe collapse.