Dear You,

We're on the Move

It's the middle of the night

Regine rousted us.
We're moving out.

My guess is ---
Regine bribed the night guards
on the bridge

The whole company is completely grumped out
Stumblin' and a-bumblin' like bumper cars in the dark

*doink!*

*cheeful melody of metal clanks and human curses*

I've got a few minutes to write
before I need to mount up.


Word Is

. . . forced march to Milan

She wants us there fast

The Visconti wedding isn't until
weekend-after-this!

whatever

*yawn*


Glad

Glad they rescheduled your Performance Review
for Monday

Glad you sent me a kiss

thanks

*smile*


Arooooo, arooooo!

Weird Dream just now ---

The French lute player last night
played another troubadour song
(kind of a ghost story)

about a lovesick man
who gets nuttier and nuttier
until he goes out into the woods
and lives with wolves

and the guy got quieter and quieter
as he sang

then pointed out into the darkness
said that the real-life wolf man
had lived right around here

just like we used to do in Summer Camp

(I didn't know that trick was this old)

But the weird thing is
as I dreamed about the song
(the Lady unknowingly
goes wolf hunting with her guards)
there were real wolves howling
out in the night

. . .close by, too!

and then Regine woke us up


Messages in the Head

It sucks not to know exactly what's happening
with the company

I do know that a lot of what goes on back here
has to do with messages for various people
that Regine has memorized
and has to deliver

I can understand that

I know how much a message . . .
. . . say . . . for example . . . an e-mail from you . . .

is worth


Read This and Then Forget It

A guy in this little village we went through
was speaking Latin Creole
with me
Said the Pope's troops came through here 3 years ago
and killed his dog and his wife and his son
(he specified that order *shudder*)
with a spear

He made me promise to tell some one far away
so that people would know
to the ends of the earth
what the Pope's troops are like

So.
There.
I fulfilled my promise.
Sorry
Next subject


Dinner / Indegestion

Insufficiently-boiled bread balls
taste like spackling compound


Here's Skip . . .

. . . with Nastibelle all saddled up

gotta ride

I owe you the big description
of a neck-and-shoulder massage
I was going to write you today


your fateful server,

Bert l'Altissimo