The alarm woke me out of REM sleep again. I hate when that happens. It takes me forever to shake the fog out of my head.
But it also allows me to take a peek into my subconscious, because I’m often still in a dream, and can actually hear what’s going through my mind for a split second. That was the case this morning, and it was so surreal I immediately wrote it down.
What the voice in my head was saying was, “No owl should ask its name: Crawford Hoarding”.
Um…What am I supposed to do with that? Who, or what, is Crawford Hoarding?
It almost sounds like the name of a mansion in one of those fascinating places where people name their mansions. If so, I suspect the place is jam packed with stuff. “Welcome to Crawford Hoarding! Please watch your step.”
And why shouldn’t an owl inquire about the place? (Or person. Or thing.) What would the consequences be for said owl? And since when can owls talk, anyway? Where were we? Narnia?
I think this would make a great book title. I should suggest it to J. K. Rowling. She could work her magic on it. And I could get a free ticket to the premier of the movie version.
Until then, warn any owls that you might encounter to mind their own business. Just in case.
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