The Neptune Asylum

Just before I woke this morning I dreamt I was in an asylum, and the nurse, a woman I seemed to know and who had, in my unquestioned impression, a fearsome reputation for being strict and rather distant, smiled at me in the most warm manner and I realised that she was quite beautiful, her eyes sparkled a little and I wondered at those glints as though they might have meaning, and then remarkably, she seemed to sense that I was looking into her for some message.

“Oh no, it’s not me,” she explained, “you have to meet her.” And then, surrounded by an entourage of doctors, nurses, attendants and a general melee of other patients a woman walked into the room, wrapped in an old cardigan and a hospital gown, her spectacles askew on her crooked nose, thin, very, very thin and of course she walked right up to me, smiled a little strangely and I saw that her eyes were the most startling pools of gold.

“I, “she exclaimed, with incredible projection, “am the fantastic face of Islington.”

Then I woke up, at 6:36 am, the exact moment that my second Neptune square went partile.

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