Ninety days delinquent gets you repo treatment

And last night I had a nearly realist, quietly pleasant dream in which I formed a friendship with a middle-aged man from a country that was Hungary in the dream, although awake I think it much more resembled other fictional countries of Central Europe. (I would have remembered if it were Orsinia.) We met while I was browsing the used books at his stall; we bonded over the 1934 film of The Scarlet Pimpernel with its shout-out to Daniel Mendoza rather than the random flare of anti-Semitism that has always marred the novel's denouement for me. He lent me records and a book he had written, a memoir in a language I couldn't read. It was winter in the dream and snowing outside the windows. I remember drinking hot chocolate, waiting for him to show up somewhere like a museum with interior stone colonnades. It was not a romance. He was selling antique, curling posters for operas that I am not sure exist. One of them was wreathed around the corners in green roses with a design of black horses and sheaves. It seems now that it should have been a retelling of Persephone and Hades, but I don't remember it. Because I couldn't read his memoir, he told me the stories.

(Title of this post unrelated to the dream; I have been listening to the original cast recording of Repo! The Genetic Opera (2009) since last night and it seemed pointedly relevant this afternoon when I got a bill for something I thought my insurance had covered in the winter. Phone calls sorted it out. I hope.)