sovay | And what he knows, he knows from life and fear in other people's eyes

After everything, I dreamed last night of a sacrificial moon-cult, a grubby, M. John Harrison-ish sort of one being run or rediscovered or half invented out of a public library by two men who were lovers but gave every sign of not being able to stand one another; I do not think they would even have spoken anymore without being bound in this jealously private, poisonous endeavor. I remember neither of them paid any attention to me until I shouted directly into their thoughts. Telepathy in the dream worked exactly like shouting without making a sound. (Awake, I think I got that from Patricia McKillip.) I can't remember any of their magic working, but I can't remember it obviously not working, either. There was the terrible sense that at any moment it might, or perhaps it had begun to work already and being in the spell, we couldn't know. I liked both of them and wished they would just break up. I thought that would put an end to the magic. I woke before I could find out if any of us survived. I write it down because it's the kind of dream I would like to turn into fiction, but have no idea if my brain will comply any time in the near future. These days I feel I'm most creative when I'm asleep.

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These days I feel I'm most creative when I'm asleep.

To be fair, it might be difficult to keep up with that level of sleeping-creativity!

I'd certainly like to see that turned into fiction.

My way-less-dramatic dream was, as usual, densely but vaguely populated by crowds of people. I think it may have taken place on some kind of university campus. The gist of it was that I had written a poem for a club I belonged to, but the poem included several actual physical objects (a glove, magazine clippings, etc) and had to be stored in a bag. I was preparing a second copy and was having to hunt down duplicates or rough equivalents to all the objects in the original.