Dreams.
Who can understand them? I had some doozies last night. I was riding on an ancient bus that had windows so small and high you couldn't look out of them, with suspicious looking, paranoid people. We finally arrived at the top of a snowy mountain that looked out over a huge expanse that had enormous icebergs floating in the air. [I flew over to one. Don't you love flying dreams?]. I searched the surface for what seemed like platinum bullion. They were about the size of cufflinks and were scattered about on the melting surface. Then I commenced a long and convoluted journey into the interior where I eventually found Woody Haroldson sitting by the sea at night with a lamp by a sand dune, his scrapbooking project all laid out before him. [He was working with a black and white cat motif... [[I kid you not]] right up until the Ninja police came and took him away, but not before he nodded to me in the direction of a spiral staircase that led to an oriental palace where I met the young prince learning his alphabet by drawing the letters with a brush dipped in water on the warm cedar decking. I'm telling you, it was EPIC in scope this dream.
I will never fully understand the way our mind works when we are asleep. It is mysterious beyond words.
(And yet, you wasted quite a few here didn't you Cupcake? When has impossibility ever stopped you? I now have a headache brought on by the image of Woody Haroldson scrapbooking. Thank you SO much for this lovely image.... I don't get paid enough for this job. Not NEARLY enough.)
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Where did the minjas take the Woody man?
Will they be nice to him?
Will they give him cookies?
(God willing we will never know kid.)