Owls woke to tell the time to all of those who listen
Last night's dreams, clearly Goya-influenced: right as I was falling asleep, a vivid blink of a great country house at night; the sense of the sea somewhere near or behind it. Small owl-masked figures were moving on the lawn, not dancing, exactly, but moving in concerted patterns, silently, swooping, spinning. It was not possible to see whether, behind their masks, their faces were human.
Later, after I had woken and fallen asleep again, I don't know where the bakeneko on the fringe theater tour came from.
Later, after I had woken and fallen asleep again, I don't know where the bakeneko on the fringe theater tour came from.

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I certainly wouldn't mind if one turned up. I'm not sure my prose is working right now, though.
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Who did you get?
(I like Chagall.)
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That seems unfair.
I mean, I know an excellent poem about baiji—Cassandra Phillips-Sears' "The Last Yangtze River Dolphin," reprinted in The Moment of Change—but still.
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O my. I want the footage.
Nine
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If it turns into a story, I will let you know.
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I don't even remember that photo! Thank you for resurrecting it.
This was definitely Goya. The primary colors I remember were amber and black.