I visited Darcy in his small attic bedroom. He showed me the book he'd written, called 'Fradel Badel'. I told him I would soon go downstairs and put the poisoned pipe there to my lips. I knew it would kill me but felt calm and pleased about it.
The phrase "cuttlebone query" leapt out at me from a stream of email spam babble and rattled around my head for a few years. I remember the curved white cuttlebones washed up on the beaches of my childhood summers. They suit me as metaphor for dream remnants - tiny compared to the ocean they come from; gouged and marked; hard and soft; light; gleaming wet then rasping dry.
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