Reading Charles de Lint has faeries on my brain, pixellated pixies popping out of ‘puters in my imagination, to pirouette en pointe across my palm before disappearing in a poof of glittery pink.

Talking with Sky has my head in 1875 Belgium, 1920 Paris, Spain somewhat later, and Havana in the early 50’s, and my brain bursts with fantasy images of intimate soirees with neurotic artists and denizens of penny universities, sipping coffee black as ink, armagnac deep as blood, and twice as sweet, or absinthe, in shades of emerald and pearl.

My brain floats free following the eddies and currents in the stream of consciousness, preparing me for sleep in much the same way that reading James Joyce always did when I was still in school, disconnecting thoughts and letting reason lie dormant for a few hours.

Darkness shrouds me from the harsh light of reality, and soft cool sheets cradle my descent into dreams, where faeries decked in vert et argent (Janet will know the significance of THOSE colors) whisper magic words in my ears.

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
— Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1