I had a weird dream this morning where I was with an immortal guy, but he was so old, he forgot he was immortal. Business people burned down his big house, and he wandered out back in the moonlight to the water’s edge… Further down the shore were some stone ruins that were his house from when the peasants burned his home for him living too long… There was a short woman who helped guide us through time travel back to each stage in his life, until eventually learning about how he’d started as a wildling in these very woods. We were sitting at a table as she helped him remember. I told the 4th person there with us that I was hiding my feet in the leaves, because the moist clay was so cold.
Erica told me she was sorry she woke me up, but I advised I probably eould not have remembered or experienced the dream. I woke from the floor creaking under her feet, but I said “I woke from your feet creak.”
And for the last three hours, we have been talking about the majesty of Feet Creek, and how only the freshest feet will do. The freshest feet with bulbous heels are served, but the bony parts are gifted to the peasants to make feet stew. We are all grown from feet, and I was lucky to have been grown from the freshest feet. Feet are inexpensive here near Feet Creek, but people far away often struggle due to shipping delays. Instead of being moist, spongy, with soft cartillage, they are tough, dry and bony.