tar spoon dreams

i bussed my room (meaning: i cleared out the cumulative dishes) earlier tonight. the result: 7 spoons, none of them blackened. clean as whistles.

so why do i still dream about cassidy at least once a week? weary this morning from a long and involved one. can this be my subconscious burden unloading itself upon my slumbering mind? i don't know what to do. hold my little torch i guess. it's wierd being a figure in a tragedy of such shakespearean proportions. and then i go to work and home and be in the world and pretend everything is ok.