15 February 2005 (yesterday) (tomorrow)

This is a dream I had.  When Wendy and I were still an item (as recently as a week ago), I dreamt that she was a living typewriter whose keys had sprung out of her machinery and lifted her up on little legs that carried her across the bed toward me.  The typewriter had no face, it was just a mass of clamoring keys extruding from a friendly little machine.

Now, the dream has changed.  The typewriter's myriad legs are now all tipped with spinning razor blades, and it hovers ominously in slow circles around my head, buzzing, while I try slowly and carefully to walk away from it.