'E suricille

'E suricille, the little mice. Not the big cellar rats: the little mice, the tiny ones you hear at night and never see. The Smorfia chose the diminutive on purpose — eleven isn’t the number of danger, it’s the number of the nuisance that won’t let you sleep: small, constant, hard to catch. In dreams, eleven arrives when there’s an unease running under the surface. Not a disaster: the deadline you think about while you’re doing something else, a remark someone made that stuck to you, the bill you haven’t looked at yet. These are the things you dodge by day that start gnawing at night — which is exactly what little mice do. Three images lead here, and the third is a surprise. The mouse and the little mice, which are the nuisance in its two sizes. And the secret, which is here in the Smorfia for a reason: what you tell no one is exactly what, for better or worse, keeps working away in hiding. Many of our worries speak in a whisper, just like secrets. Eleven has a kind face too, though, and it’s the face of transformation: the things that gnaw, in the long run, open passages. If it came up in your dream, try asking yourself which small thought won’t go away. Naming it doesn’t solve it, but a mouse you’ve seen is far less frightening than one you’ve only heard.