Another Dream

Woke up this morning thinking that I must sculpt with butter. Not a refrigerated stick of, but a soft, warm mound. Need to squeeze it between my fingers and see what I've got. Need to touch milky fat and see yellowy shine. Stars! I rival you with my mess of shiny goodness.

And Tad says, "You know what Freud would say." And I say, "Can't a ball of butter be just a ball of butter?" Now really.