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[A clock strikes midnight. Footsteps approach, then stop.]
Night Watchman: Well, now. Somebody has put a new gentleman in the hall, and nobody thought to tell me. That happens around here. I go home in the morning with everybody accounted for, and when I come back, there's a fellow standing beside a desk as if he's been waiting for me since Tuesday. Let's see what your little sign says. Bram Stoker. Author of Dracula. Oh, dear.
Stoker: Is that a professional assessment, or a personal objection?
Night Watchman: It's a man realizing he ought to have read the staff bulletin. Good evening, Mr. Stoker. Welcome to the Hall of Imagination. I'm the Night Watchman.
Stoker: Yes. The keys suggested as much. You needn't look quite so alarmed. I wrote about the vampire. I am not the vampire.
Night Watchman: That's a distinction I am mighty pleased to hear you make. I don't suppose you could put it in writing?
Stoker: Have you a pen?
Night Watchman: You know, I believe we're going to get along. Most folks start by asking where they are. You start by offering documentation.
Stoker: I should like to know where I am. But reassuring the gentleman with the keys seemed a useful first step.
Night Watchman: You're in a museum. During the day, visitors come through and look at figures of people who have left something behind in the world. Books. Music. Ideas. At night, some of those figures wake up. I walk the halls, check the doors, and occasionally get corrected by a person who's been dead longer than I've been alive.
Thank you for experiencing Celebrate Creativity.
