Neil was certainly gracious, but a bit nonplussed that I would have gone all the way to Minnesota to help him find his missing fountain pen. To make matters worse, by the time I arrived it had already turned up.
Instead of just having his assistant throw me out into the yard, he invited me into his curiosity shop of a home. A very nice woman I couldn’t see clearly (but who was not Lorraine) brought elevenses into the sitting room. We had a pleasant conversation about the uneasy relationship between “serious” literature and fantastic tales, while cats of all sizes and shapes wandered through. Someone somewhere was starting to play a mandolin when my alarm went off.
Between this and my funeral home dream, I am thinking I need to bring back Liber Nocturnum. Still, if I can ask my subconscious two questions: (a) If I’m going to have dreams about Neil’s world, could I at least get Lorraine in them?; and (b) elevenses? What the hell was that all about?
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Heh: elevenses. You’re gay for Pooh.