dream_guest epitome of incomprehensibility I walk into my parents' dining room to see the writer J.R.R. Tolkien talking animatedly with my dad. "Isn't he dead?" I think. "But no, maybe I'm a teenager in this dream. But wasn't he dead then, too?" I just roll with it. Tolkien is continuing a theory I was just reading about upstairs in my room: how poems, even those without obvious rhyme or meter, have the rhythm of a bobbing horse or rolling waves. Up and down, up and down. This is why lullabies work so well. He takes his pipe out of his mouth. "I apologize," he says, but it's not for the pipe. "For the lecture. I don't mean to give a tedious monologue." No, no, it's interesting, I think or say. I go to sit at the other side of the table and he hands me a sheet. It holds the lyrics of a song he says he wrote, but right away I can tell my mother wrote it. He's just expanded it, made the language more flowery and lengthened it to five lines instead of four. I'm not sure I like this, so I turn on the computer and ignore him. But then my dream turns me off, pops me back into the waking world with a fragment of a different half_asleep_song in my head. 240628 ... e_o_i Pah, the link is to half_asleep_songs. 240628 ... e_o_i No link. Okay, let's go to dream_songs - close enough. 240628 what's it to you? who go blather from