"The great events of life often leave on unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and when one thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us. In some tiny ivory cell the brain stores the most delicate, and the most fleeting impressions." - Oscar Wilde
The Portrait of Mr. W.H.
A dream I had a few nights ago: I was on a bus with a famous percussionist. He played a rhythm by hitting drum sticks against the various parts of the bus. On the bus was an instrument that resembled a guitar, but its body was a body of some sort of animal and the neck was a bone; a neck bone (very long) or a thigh bone. The body was stitched together to keep it in one piece. But it was also stuffed and it was heavy. However, one could strum the strings and make a decent sound. I carried this burdensome instrument off the bus and into city streets. I had to go up a hill and after awhile, I tired of carrying it (it felt as heavy as a decapitated body and it slumped in my arms uncomfortably), so I left it among some flower pots on someone's patio and went on up the hill without it, feeling relieved.
