I was up until 2 am, I am fighting off the carnal interest of the local herbiage with my sinuses, and my neck is killing me. Screw it: sleep was good.
To make up for Monday's good climbing night, last night I stank up the place. Well, I lie. My balance was good, but I had no upper body strength at all, and was back to wiping out on that traverse I sailed through on Monday.
That made me sad and frustrated. I suspect I hadn't recovered from Monday yet. Muscle fibers still repairing themselves from the last round of micro-tears.
Anyway, after I went back to bed I had another dream (two remembered dreams in one week!), this one involving a remarkably inept King in Yellow attempting to force his way through a revolving door to get to me, accompanied by a couple of broad-headed robot Tindalosi, while I hid in a sealed and stained and Goffick corridor on a derelict space station. He wasn't particularly scary, though, because he had tiny little arms and his ragged hump was stuck in the door, so he just kept going around and around, and since the Tindalosi were on leashes, he dragged them through with him. They didn't mind, though: they squish into cracks.
I eventually got out by squeezing through a side door which had a rather long security chain.
My subconscious is quite pleased with itself, as it seems to think it has told me something Vitally! Important! about Chill. What that vitally important thing might be, I am really not sure yet, but it will no doubt come. At least it's nice to know the book is back there cooking. Sometimes you can't tell if there's anything going on in there, even if you lift the lid and peek.
Now I think I will make another travel CD for my Very Long Drive to Penguicon. Something with a lot of Mark Knopfler on it, for signing along purposes. And I will shower. And I will wonder why people are jackhammering my sidewalk this morning.
Hmm. Looks like the MDC.