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Odd dream not yet pursued;
Short little dream from the Land of Toons. Always a pleasure.
A house the shape and color of a huge acorn, with a thatch and wood shingled roof.
A man as round as rubber ball, clothed in brown and tweed.
A ruddy vest belted with twisted twine, a shoulder strap securing a woven pouch, slung to his hip.
Loose topped boots clumped and worn, laced to the knees, the laces feather tipped.
He sat a top his round topped house, his squat legs straddling the brick chimney rising through the thatch.
With his right hand he drew a rope from around his waist and snapped it like a whip.
It circled the chimney in a sweeping arch the tip landing in his out stretched left.
Raising both hands above his head gripping the rope like reins of team of horses he fell backwards against the roof of the house.
His legs flew up and out and he buried his heels into the base of the chimney.
The house rose from the forest floor in a gust of wind.
Leaves swirled in from every direction pushing the house and the short round man into the air.
It was followed by other acorn cottages each being driven by little plump riders.
They dotted the evening sky.
What do ya do with a dream like that, except say “thanks”?