Got up at 10:01.
Dreamed of being one of a group of actors about to appear before a school assembly playing eccentric superheroes like the Mystery Men; of stopping at a park in coastal Maine on the Fourth of July.
We got a laugh from the headline list from the copy editing class: "Kids make delicious snacks"; "Juvenile court tries shooting defendant"; "British left waffles on Falkland Islands."
Dinner was spaghetti.
Puitak came over and looked at old pictures of our family, then went to the spotlight with Moira and me. (They had to leave early, before the end of the sequences.)
They all say my tango sequence was good. Strangely, as I was doing it, it seemed short. They had a birthday cake for people like me born in February. My gingerbread was a hit, of course.
On the way back there were a lot of young men in the Ossington station. (I'm glad they had some police there.) They must have been returning from a Raptors game.
Is the space program like the quest for the Holy Grail? [Reading The Once and Future King at the time of the Columbia space shuttle disaster got me thinking about that...]
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