Rainy Bank Holiday

Last night I had a dream that my tongue was involved in some sort of accident with a fishing rod, and I had to live without a tongue- couldn't speak, taste a thing, and it made me quite depressed in the dream. I woke up, couldn't get back to sleep right away, and later dreamt that I had a butterfly in a jar, it was an amzing thing, I had caught and wanted to show to someone before I released it, but I was in my old school and none of my schoolmates would look at it.

This morning I woke up to another rejection from a poetry magazine, the bog standard variety. One of the poems I sent is probably one of the best I've ever written, or at least that's how I feel about it. The problem with sending to mags is the ability to hold on to how you feel about your work is threatened, maybe this can sometimes be a good thing. It was a sad poem, not neutral feeling at all, and I am wondering if this is a problem. Seems emotion in alot of work magazines favour can be a liability, and not something that can be harnessed. All day today I am clashing my tongue against the back of my teeth to see it is still there, wondering if I make a sound- and if it exists if no one hears it.