I dreamed I had lice. But instead of the lice being bugs, they were people. And not just any people, but famous authors.
So I'd part my hair, and I'd see Emerson run away from the light, or Steinbeck, or Hemingway.
When the author-louse bred, it produced other authors of the same literary era, so Goethe produced Edgar Allan Poe and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Hemingway produced Faulkner and James Joice.
When they bit my scalp, I heard the words of their books being read inside my head.
I woke up feeling itchy, and literate.
That is SO creepy! Hilarious and creepy, like a lot of your dreams I suppose. If only they could infest your bookshelf instead of your scalp.
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