Snoring softly, the narrator was having a dream, but not a particularly comforting dream. He kept seeing all manner of beast, bird and character converge on him, seemingly wanting to use him as the feast. He woke in a bit of a panic.
What he saw at the Picnic did not bring him any relief, rather more of a headache. That Grey fellow apparently was doing a capital job and could be relied upon, but there was this new guest who brought all these other stories with her which kept intruding into the Picnic. What an anxiety of influence he was feeling. Sources and stories were bursting at their seams in quite an unseemly manner and spilling out into the Glade. Would this turn out to be a dyscatastrophe or a eucatastrophe?
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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09-23-2002, 07:50 AM
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