Bittersweet

Sunday night, after dealing with the storm, I had a wee drop of the creature before bed. It was the first bit of liquor I've had to drink in quite some time, for reasons that should be obvious to readers of this journal.

So naturally I dreamt I was buried alive with Brett, who was also alive (Note: this is not a zombie story). Initially we were crammed into the confines of the same pine box, six feet down, but this transformed into some sort of marble sarcophagus, then into a quite luxurious mausoleum, with ornate carving on the walls and a high ceiling. We had a lovely conversation, then escaped the tomb with the help of my cat Dave, who jumped out and showed us the suitable climbing path. Any grip or platform large enough for that fat cat to use was plenty big enough for us to climb out on.

I really didn't want to wake up on Monday, but I couldn't get back to the dream so I reluctantly got out of bed.