Last night, a series of dreams:
One where we were driving around a town near where I grew up which is locally famous for its "historic quaintness." I pointed out a one-hundred-fifty-year-old house that I sang Christmas carols at when I was a little girl. You were driving and it was snowing and I asked you to slow down and you did. Later I wondered if perhaps that is just how someone who has many years of driving experience behind him drives through the snow.
Another where you were in my actual, real life bedroom, killing spiders that were the size of a copy of David Copperfield. We listened to Cat Stevens afterwards and played chess on the livingroom floor.
And also: one in which I was looking for you at night in some sort of Manderley-esque estate, maybe even equipped with a lit candle and floor-length nightgown. What are you doing sleeping in this room? I wanted to know when I had finally found you. We snuck back to my bedroom and, well, what happened next is far too obvious to tell you.
Woke up much later than usual, feeling determined to sleep the whole rest of the day, although I didn't, at all.
I walked to the Farmer's Market for Kettlecorn and had no intentions of enjoying it in its entirety. I just haven't been feeling it. Next weekend, I reassured myself, Next weekend. Next...