Doch an den Fensterscheiben, wer malte die Blätter da?

Last night produced a particularly useless nightmare: being asked to see a pair of films with some (nonexistent; I seem to be back to that point in my dream-cycle) friends, but both of them were either directly about or referenced the case of a (similarly nonexistent, or at least so I assume) mass murderer in Boston who had poisoned children and then packed their bodies together so tightly that the bones started to crush into one another; there was a shot from one film that had been appearing in all the trailers, a constellation of phosphorous glowing beautifully in the dark until you realized that it was a mass of skeletons, not stars. This was really not what I wanted to dream about. And it hasn't sparked any sonnets or short stories, either. seajules has given me a prompt for "early fireworks," however, so I owe her something with fourteen lines before Friday.

My father and I cooked dinner tonight, mostly extrapolating from a Gourmet recipe for pork chops grilled with adobo—a Mexican spice paste made with paprika, oregano, cumin, chile de árbol, lime zest, garlic, and black pepper—and guacamole with tomatillos. They came out spectacularly well, meaning that there are not even leftovers. I was a lot more cheerful after that.

From a fortune cookie my mother opened tonight: "Tomorrow morning, take a left turn as soon as you leave home." This is the most concrete advice anyone in my family has ever seen from a fortune cookie, barring the one in Colorado that read, "You will be hungry soon. Order takeout now." Should we be worried?