I am at a party. Mike exclaims: "I'm not into Frinky Frinky women, not since Elizabeth Rowlf made it so popular. I'm into men that eat men." On a badly photocopied diagram of Greek architecture, Brendon uses cross-hatching to show me exactly where on my face I have chocolate. Pointing at some photocopier noise near the top of the page, I say: "Ha, there's some floating above my head!" Nobody understands my joke, except for Geordie, who doesn't find it very funny. Geordie points at the diagram and shouts, "That's not a Balar! That's an Ios!!" Geordie storms out, angry that such a blatant error could be made on an educational diagram. I wake up. I briefly ponder the significance of this dream. Finding no such discernible significance, I write it down on a scrap of paper and vow to return to it at a later date and pick it apart, desperate to make sense of such a jumbled mess. I google "Elizabeth Rowlf." As far as I can tell, there is no such person.
