J. Double-R. Tolkien came to me in a dream last night. His hair was white. His skin was white. He was, in fact, vaguely reminiscent of a large white ball. He saw me laughing at my thoughts. Turning red and rubbery, he lunged towards me. At this point it occurred to me that he was not altogether an angel. I closed my eyes, wishing he'd go away. He did.

In the morning there was a note on my desk—white ink on black paper. It was
Tolkien's handwriting, or so I guessed, as he was the only ghost in my room last night. The note yelled at me, "What have you done with my talent?" Surprised to hear the note speak, I decided it was probably not the best of mornings to be awake. I pulled the covers over my head.

In a time slot between dream and Austin City Limits, I passed again by Tolkien. He was purple this time. Come to think of it, everyone was purple. I wanted to say, "Hey, who are you to talk about talent when you're purple," but held my tongue. Instead I argued that poetry was the only real talent. He turned a deeper purple and said, "So." I told him I was over him and he should go hang with Hobbits. He said, "I knew you couldn't do it all along. Why don't you run away and write a poem about it?"