A ball all in masks

Last night I dreamed of a figure at a masked ball, in a red or rose-colored crinoline dress; it looked like a small woman with her hands folded in front of her, but her mask—or her face—was a fret of ivory like a triceratops skull or the mantle of a squid, barred across like bones. All she did was turn her head very slowly, to meet the viewer's eye, but it was chilling.

As nineweaving says, when life hands you random synaptic firings . . .