Assigned to deliver a triangular wooden picture frame with writing inscribed on it. Actually a duplicate, though I’m uncertain whether it’s the copy or an original.
Walking down a hillside on a set of stairs through people’s private apartments. Gardens, cottages, wooden gates and fences, open bedrooms. One cozy-looking bedside belongs to Betty White, with whom I briefly converse.
I notice that after carrying it, the long sides of the triangle frame have been bent into the opposite directions — as if they were broken and reattached.