‘The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one‘ (Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Birthmark)
It’s a fair point, well-made. Personally speaking, sleep’s spectres have been breaking forth all over the shop, more than affrighting my sadly actual life. Last night, for instance, I dreamt that three doctors cut open my stomach with a miniature scimitar. At least four mailbags-worth of dead leaves (beech, I believe) spilled out upon the hospital floor. My wife, wearing my father’s old winter coat, promptly swept the leaves into one large pile upon which a small blond-haired boy duly leapt, singing as he did ‘Cornflakes, cornflakes, cor-or-ornflakes’ to the tune of the German National Anthem. If my wife’s word is to be trusted (and, bless her, it usually is) I called out ‘No! No! Hold on to the Branch! Hold on to the Branch!’ several times during the night.
This is just a hunch, of course, but it might have had something to do with this. Either that or I quaffed far too much spiced cider yesterday evening.