Moses, Moses, Moses

So the other night I dreamed that I was Charlton Heston. Mr. Heston/me was trapped in a very sixty-ish insane asylum/hospital/research center/retirement home. Most of my dream involved me/Mr. Heston wandering around said sixties facility murmuring over things in Mr. Heston's rich, stentorian voice. There was a kitty, Mr. Heston/me chased it around until he/I caught it and then Mr. Heston/me cuddled its little brains out. And then Mr. Heston/me wandered into the basement after being repeatedly warned not too. The basement was shadowy and filled with tanks. The tanks had water and lots of under-sea critters in them like starfish and coral and kelp. Well after looking into the tanks (after being told by one of the numerous creepy people in lab coats that had been placed around this facility like potted ficus), we are staring really deeply into one of tanks and suddenly the tank rocks forward and what appears to be a human hand and arm slams against the glass from the dark, sea-critter encrusted inside. An alarm goes off and the lights start flashing and suddenly one of the things in the tank is after Mr. Heston/me as well as the ubiquitous lab coat guys. So Heston/me start running and running and eventually he/I  stumble across an adorable old man in a wheel chair, but the chair gets stuck in the grating that is the floor of this place and we have to leave him behind and he dies a horrible screaming death at the hands of whatever was in the tank. Heston/me are caught and are tied down and about to be lowered into one of the tanks, and then I wake up sweating and trembling. Also, at some point there was a dog that was beloved by the old people who were also everywhere in this dream and it was killed and its corspe somehow wound up floating in one of the tanks.

Some thoughts:

Though I had Mr. Heston's voice throughout the dream, Mr. Heston does in fact scream like a little girl when things pop out at him.

Mr. Heston likes kitties. A lot. Apparently as much as I do.

Mr. Heston apparently has the same knowledge of guns that I do. I say this because when Mr. Heston/I finally found a shot gun to kill the thing from the tanks, Heston/I could not load it and only had a vague idea how. I find this ironic.

I dreamed that I was freaking Charleton Heston. An incompetent kitty-loving, girly screaming Charleton Heston. What does this say about me?

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Bookless!

I am suffering from Swordspoint withdrawal. I read Covenants and The King's Own and now I just want more, more, more and I think that Lorna Freeman's third novel might really not be coming out. This is cause for much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I am working on Katherine Valente's The Orphan's Tales: In the Night Garden. I want to devour this novel but because nothing has satisfied my reading cravings recently, I am going slowly. Gah. I need something to read. Suggestions?

I am going to try:
Vampirates (it looked too campy not to try. We'll see. It's either going to be great or really, really bad and nothing in between)
Mordred, Bastard Son
Winter King
The Branion Series
The Dance of the Stone Chamelion
The Merro Tree
Point of Dreams
The Fire's Stone

Hopefully something will hit the spot. In the mean time, I await January 2 with a patience that is killing me. I really, really cannot wait for the release of Breath and Bone by Carol Berg.

Gah, I hate being bookless.