"Our bones we pick for ourselves,
But the world it is clothes them in flesh."
And then I woke up.
It was from a moving and lovely dream which popped like a bubble, spoken by a modular shapechanging artificial servant of Boskone which was supposed to rig tomorrow's General Election. The form it had chosen and the life it had lived to get itself into place had changed it beyond its visualization; and now it was explaining to me what it was, and why it was defecting to the resistance. It saw small hope for us, especially with the US security state already thoroughly subverted, but now it could do nothing other.
There was more, much more. I and my whole family got involved with a really hairy crossing between Ohio and Mexico; and we got marooned in the deep back-country when the borders were closed, and some of us had to dig in for the winter at our remote farmhouse, whilst the rest of us split up and went on helter-skelter chases by rail and steamboat to make some fated rendezvous. But the rest is as gone as rainbows in a soap-bubble.
I like my forlorn and unwillingly honest shapechanger, and it cries out for its own story, though as yet I don't see what it would be. Still.
I am proud of my mind-child, who picked up the bones of its ideas anywhere that was handy, and let the world clothe them in a life until that life and its friends were worth the living and the dying. For I have worked in politics, and I have seen what the other way comes to; I have seen the bare bones march.
Oh, my friend, I will bring you to life and comfort - if I can.
Meanwhile comes the clacking over the hill, and the contrapted escapes of every shambles and midden are pouring their brags and begs through my letterbox.