On Saturday morning, I woke up wondering who had replaced my brain with that of a person who had not drunk herself into oblivion with Greeneggsandtam the night before, because the brain I woke up with was doing some philosophizing hitherto unseen around these parts after much beer and wanton drooling onto the pillows.
The reason for my confusion was this:
The last of my dreams was nothing but the sound of my own voice delivering a lecture that was an explanation of humankind's fondness for symmetry. My dream-self postulated that symmetrical images could be repeated endlessly without break, a visual eternity of sameness, and I extrapolated that the symmetry we often seek in human beauty is at least partially spawned by the desire to see ourselves within the context of the infinite rather than that of our finite physical lives. I concluded that our desire for symmetry, both in object and in human form, drew from the same well as our desire to seek the divine.
And then, I snapped awake with a chunk of Onion's fur in my eye and a carpet of blech that was self-replicating on my tongue.
That was more like it.