This morning I awoke from a dream of walking through a tangled tropical jungle. Even the air seemed lush, each breath impregnated with green. I'd come upon the ruins of a once great estate, there in the middle of the wilderness. To my left was a clearing in the trees where once an enormous house had stood, and on my right was a sort of mall or promenade, stretching away for hundreds of yards. Once, it had been a beautiful garden, but was now being rapidly reclaimed by the jungle. There was the ruin of a fountain and there were crumbling walls and underfoot was a vast, shattered mosaic of small, variegated ceramic tiles. Immense vines clung to everything. The whole scene was one part Charles Foster Kane's Xanadu, one part Skull Island, simultaneously beautiful, terrible, and tragic.

At least I slept last night, probably more than six hours. It's cloudy here today. It was unseasonably warm yesterday, with a high near 70˚F. I was able to keep my office window open well into the night.

I didn't write yesterday.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast