I awoke this morning pressed under the weight of unremembered dreams. It feels like the medieval torture where increasing numbers of stones are piled on until the breath is crushed out then the muscles and bones can not open the lungs to take more air in. But since it's a pressure of mind, an insubstantial thing, all the crushing weight only forces out tears. So I wake up, as Kang or Kodos once put it, leaking ocular fluid yet there's no reason why. Though, of course, there always is.
I suppose if I remember the dreams, it was a night as full of dreams as it was of lack of sun, it may become clear. I've had dreams like that. I even remember some of them. I'm not going to write them here. I'm just going to mention them.
UPDATE: On top of that, today's "Live from the Met" is seriously not to my taste: Berg's "Lulu." Too non-melodically modern for my taste. The story's engagingly perverse though (link will take you to Wikipedia where it's all laid out - and I do mean "laid"). Oh well. After a string of several wonderful broadcasts, the last of the season hits a clinker for me. There are those who like this sort of thing and more power to them. No! Less power to them. Just a little bit of power to them. Not enough to power to screw up the opera broadcasts for me. Tomorrow, the glorious Renée Fleming in my on-going opera babe series.