All my books are packed away, and The Chrysanthemum and the Sword has been returned to the library, unfinished. I am going home tomorrow, back to my daddy's house, and my room is in proper disarray for that purpose. My bathroom has been scrubbed within an inch of its life, and my fingers have been safely marinated in disinfectant. I'm moving on to the kitchen next, packing up my pots and cleaning yesterday's neglected dinner dishes. But I will rest first, if just for a minute, to entertain delightful fancies. 
Imagine a moonlight ball on the green. With lanterns floating thro
ugh the sky, twinkling green and yellow lights. And a hundred fearsomely charming ladies in a hundred fine gowns twirling in the arms
of a hundred gentlemen. This one of spider silk, that one of rose, and all the coats in downy chick feathers, or the soft tummy furs of a mother squirrel. After hours of dancing one wants nothing more than to fly up into a hammock and bathe in the gentle light of the moon, while the band rubs its legs together and the lead singer lets out a solemn "Croak!" Moon beams are good for the complexion.
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