Seem to have caught some chest-cold thing from the wife. No deep sleep last night. but lots of dreams.

I bred a bunch of tribble-like chickens that could derive nutrients from the air. No legs, no wings, no beak, just a healthy set of nostrils and small, almost vestigial eyes. Naturally happy creatures. Anything made them happy- gravity, immobility, being thrown up against a wall. They were quite content to sit on a windowsill and lay a string of yolkless eggs day after day. Sort of a modern day Schmoo. They purred like kittens.

I found they could be hypnotized by showing them a yellow flower, or even a picture of a yellow flower. They could then be shipped via mail anywhere in the world. I was sending them to Africa by the crateload. You could make them procreate by rubbing their ass on your sweaty armpit, they’d lay a fertile egg every time you did that. Leave the egg on a windowsill, and you had another chicken-tribble. I never did come up with a name for them. Steve Buschemi figured prominently in the dream for reasons I did not and do not understand.