Underneath sand on the beaches like a plague of topless locusts

I slept eight hours last night, but I do not appreciate that my brain used the time to concoct a dream specifically tailored to upset me: a field trip to a museum where all the tableaux were constructed with preserved and posed corpses. It was especially unpleasant because I would otherwise have enjoyed one of the special exhibits—a history of poisoning across the ages, with examples of living plants and deposits of minerals—if it hadn't been illustrated with dead bodies, not only of the appropriate demise, but all the living tasks as well. My mother thinks my brain has jettisoned all subtlety in dealing with academic trauma. And I seem to have some kind of cold on top of the sinus infection. On the bright side, Bertie Owen does not seem to have caught fire, even a little bit.