My subconscious is a HUGE DORK.

So I had this dream.

In which Samuel Taylor Coleridge and John Keats were engaged in a kind of vicious rivalry. Yes, that's right: a poet-rivalry. And one evening, by chance, they found themselves in the same tavern. And again by chance, a bar fight broke out. Keats was right in the thick of things, and when shit got heavy, he ended up killing a man. Well, Coleridge was hanging out on the sidelines, and he captured the moment of the murder... with a daguerreotype. And later had a crisis of conscience about whether to publish the daguerreotype in a periodical. He wanted to, because it would bring down Keats, but he didn't want to be vindictive.

Nevermind that the daguerreotype antedates Coleridge's death by 6 years and Keats' by 19.
Nevermind that you couldn't really print daguerreotypes in newspapers.
Nevermind that the daguerreotype took several seconds to expose and thus could not freeze-frame a murder in a tavern.

I think the thing to focus on here is how AWESOME my subconscious is.