Dreams

Early this morning, I dreamed that I was having a conversation about books with Neil Gaiman. He recommended several which, sadly, appear not have been written yet; given that two were by Octavia Butler and one was the final Chronicle of Tintin, I suspect they never will. And that's a shame, because they sounded fascinating.

I was also, for some reason, looking for my pants, in that very matter-of-fact way that you do in dreams. As in, "oh, where are my pants? Perhaps I'll try this room, where I'll stop to have chat with this nice fellow and examine his bookshelves." Of course, given the state of laundry around here, I'm frequently searching for pants, so I don't attach much significance to that bit.