When I see the word 'mitochondria' I automatically think of the homeworld of dancing telepathic trees. This, of course, falls in line with my untiring refusal to accept reality over fancy, and I consider it to be exceedingly charming of myself.
But this is even better. I recently came across a word in Act II of Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty:
farandole-- a spirited circle dance of Provencal derivation
I love when this happens. It makes you appreciate your favorite authors all over again. The genius lies in the overlap, I'm guessing.
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