Dreams
Last night I dreamt every time I pushed my [Get Mail] button a new email address arrived.
I woke a few times to sounds outside. The sounds of someone circling and peering in my window. No doubt, it was Gustave Flaubert. ’Twas either the dying Mad Libs who tipped him off—or perhaps it was Nate, who is on to me that I am onto him.
I shall no doubt contact Carter, for another hunt. I believe the two of us could take down Flaubert; he’s weak in the legs. I shall ask Nate to join us, this will betray his roll, or lack thereof, in the matter.
Also, coffee good and woody this morning.
