The Baron von Munchausen would probably approve of these dreams. Me, I'm just "Huh?"
How sick/well am I? I'm not sure. Not even my dream-self can decide, apparently, based on what it's been sending me. I don't remember any dreams last night, but this morning when I crawled back into bed for a few hours, my dream-self sent me:
a surprisingly loud Glen Hansard wearing a fake washing machine;
a very quiet and seemingly sulky Marketa Irglova (I wish I could say wearing nothing, but) wearing ordinary clothes, sitting inside a small lobby outside of which Hansard was setting up to sing;
drag queens in that same lobby;
an overheard phone call between my former boss at the dog show company and (apparently) her boss somehow concerning me;
a tense drive to/through L.A., tense for unknown reasons;
an office where Roger Ebert was in one corner office, using a voice machine to talk on the phone, and a family was in another part of the office, including a daughter who had a too-spherical head and had no eyes;
and me waiting inside the building where Sock Dreams (which really is located in Portland, by the way; its store is in Sellwood and its warehouse is a few blocks from the Ross Island Bridge (you know more now)), waiting for it to open because Something Important was inside. Apparently.
Yeah, all that in a couple of hours under the sheets, trying to heal. Analyze away!