Up at the farm, the farmhouse and barns were surrounded by woods, and there were several paths through the woods that were mostly straight and criss-crossed at 60-degree angles (so some triangles were formed). There were a lot of cats and chickens that wandered around on the paths. I was on a mission to bring home a special 3-hole punch (I don't remember what was special about it), and I wasn't supposed to let the chickens or the cats see it because it was a birthday present for one of them (or something), so I was trying to plan a route along the different paths that would avoid their attention.

Meanwhile, I was corresponding with Ryan Parks (Someething Wonderful host) by mail, hand-writing on lined paper, giving him weirdly specific instructions about tracks of mine that I wanted him to play and how to play them. I felt weird about this even though it seemed like he had asked me what I wanted, sort of like when someone asks you how you're doing and you are supposed to say "good" and then ask them how they're doing but instead talk a lot about some subject that they might not really want to be hearing about.

I woke up to Marilla whimpering, swallowed some Nyquil, and migrated to my own bed, where I fell asleep and dreamt again about the farm. This time I was spending time with the old turkey, Mr. Duffer (who in real life got eaten by a coyote or something a month or two ago). He was very old and decrepit, and his body was just a hard hollow shell of skin and feathers with some holes worn in it, and through the holes I could see his bones, and I wondered how he could keep living and walking around being basically just a skeleton, and worried about rain getting through his carapice.