Last night I dreamed I was helping my brother take care of a white rabbit. Its hair was a bit disheveled, but it was still aloof, like John Edwards in a wind storm. I was careful to touch my nose to its nose as it hopped by, which is the proper lapine greeting (true). Ignoring my adherence to social graces, it proceeded to pee on my magazines. Curious.

I attribute at least a portion of dream-weirdness to temperature extremes. My room is drafty like the Atlantic is a bit moist, so before curling up for the night I don a pair of thick fleece pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of Mom’s homemade felted slippers, all before pulling up a mass of blankets that could have held back the Normandy invasion. An initial three hour period of slumber is usually interrupted by a sweaty awakening, and a fading image of a tiger smothering a naked mole rat in a swamp. I am the mole rat. The pants are the tiger. I get it.