So last night I was lying on the couch snacking on prunes (Oh lord, I really am the oldest fart of my age!) reading "Smoke and Mirrors" by Neil Gaiman, which is one of his short story anthologies.
I think I'm actually obsessed with this guy now. His imagination is unparalleled. I came across a story called "The Sweeper of Dreams" and it did something to me. For the first time in a long...well, ever... I tried to memorize this story verbatim. I think my flatmate (see! Gaiman's got me speaking like an englishman) thought I was a little bit loony. But, so it is.
Only fiction can make me do something like that.