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Hot Swordfish Sandwiches

Awakened from dreamtime the other morning I can recall that I was walking in my childhood neighborhood and seeing some young guys with strange staffs. The staffs were equipped with glowing blue bulbs on the end and gaffer hooks on the sides.  The pair walked along slowly melting the considerable snowdrifts that had been left in neat piles by the snowplows.  As the glowing blue bulbs melted the snow, swordfish were revealed, and these would be hooked and thrown into the back of an open panel truck that followed along.  There seemed to be a swordfish in every drift, under every stranded car, and every park bench.  For a while I sat in the back of the panel truck holding a hot swordfish sandwich in each hand, knowing that I was on the way to a nursing home for retired painters.  We got there and I stood in my dark, smudgey-stained smock, beret, and black cape with a violet lining, trying to keep the staff away from my easel and numerous boxes of supplies.  The head nurse said:  "Sign here Mr. Dali."  I replied that I was not Mr. Dali, and I wished to register under the name of Danton Fesli, Esquire. The head nurse said:  "Of course, Mr. Dali."  I looked about, but could not find any recognizable color in the walls.  My ropey mustache drooped down both sides of my chin.  "Where is your largest window?"  I asked.


Cydonia photo: ESA

This is the journal of David Ross
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