My god, I'm tired. I slept poorly and this morning managed the neat trick of folding my waking fantasies into my unconscious dreams. Dreamed of Spike and Riley in some sort of weird tree-top land, where the ground was made entirely of shifting leaves, or perhaps some kind of sponge, with a huge subterranean forest below them. They got on a train and closed themselves up in one of those tiny sleeper compartments and began kissing as the train rattled along. I think they were in the circus. Eventually they reached a tiny Swiss town and got out and stood on a wooden station platform as people bustled around them, dragging luggage. The sky was very blue and there were mountains surrounding the station, and there wasn't really a town at all, just a lot of emptiness. "I think I left the jar at the office," Riley said. But that was never really explained, and then I woke up.

In retrospect, it had a very Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade feel to it, as if Nazis and blonde spies were going to motor down from the castle at any moment to collect them for a mission. I think this would make a good story. Yes. Yes, I do. Shut up. I can hear you. But I have no skills at historical storytelling, so that's right out. But Riley. He'd make a great American spy, posing as a German soldier. That earnest face, that easy affable air that says, "I'm a good Nazi," but in truth could hide all sorts of devious tricks. Spike of course is the real Nazi, wooed to the side of truth, justice, and the American way of life. The gay American way of life. Not to America itself, though--not until after the war. Meanwhile, there should be trips to the opera and dim cafes, and frolicking in the countryside, and perhaps weekends in a Swiss chalet, with down bedding and crackling fires. And lots of angst and secret meetings and ruthless murders and rescues. I have not put enough of these things in Noir, come to think of it. I am bad and wrong.

And I am bored, and again with the tired.