Hello, brain. At this point, I've decided not to ask why last night's dreams were full of alternate Hanukkahs and strange centaurs and spiral staircases twisting down into black and brackish water. The night before, I dreamed that I was romantically involved with a thirtyish Derek Jacobi who lived in a brownstone in not-Boston with a library of videos—were you at all aware of the logistical conflicts with real life this scenario presents? And the previous night, when I dreamed of traveling to a blue-painted city in Tunisia with an eccentric kami who looked mostly like Neil Gaiman, and complicated dealings with a historical nobleman who wanted his oracle to come out a certain way: I went back to sleep and got a political feud with assassinations and Lovecraftian things beneath the streets of a bakery. What is this, dream sweeps week? You go on constructing storylines I couldn't plot even if I were conscious. I'll be over here, thinking about Orlando (1992) and Ash: A Secret History. Get me a Tilda Swinton icon, somebody.
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- 1: She was an excellent governess and a most respectable woman
- 2: Cormorant to rock, gulls from the storm
- 3: The dark sleek heads are risen from the water
- 4: And the shrouds hum full of the gale of the grave and the keel goes out to the sea
- 5: Afghanistan banana stand
- 6: In my time on earth, I said too much, but not nearly, not nearly enough
- 7: If I press button A, all my pennies will go
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