I dreamed I was a "semicolon butterfly" (polygonia
interrogationis). My wings were mottled with various shades of
red and brown, and their tips were violet. I floated off the page
and lighted on an inkwell. I uncurled my tongue and dipped it
into the blue-black nectar.
Later that night, I dreamed I was listening to a financial report on
the radio: "Prices of semicolons, plot devices, prologues and inciting
incidents continued to fall yesterday, lopping twenty-eight points off
the TomJones Index." It was uncannily like something out of
THE
WELL OF LOST PLOTS by Jasper Fforde.
