When I read that ancient Greeks had Celtic slaves it jostled my cell memory.  Why am I so obsessed with being a playwright, a dramatist even?  With time I have come to believe one of my relatives was in Athens in its golden years.  He was there as a slave, a house slave, as my last name might suggest, perhaps in the house of one of the players, perhaps even in the house of one of the tragedians.  From up close he saw the plays and never forgot.

Mystical?   Yes.   Possible?   Maybe.  Romantic?  Of course.   Welcome to my world and its many cells of memory.