2

... I get there to identify the body. It's him; the magus of the north, the lively soul, dead, lying still in the rain, shining with his fading smile. I asked them to bury his piano with him, but they laughed. "the coffin is too small for it", they said. "What about a copy of Musicophilia?" I'm about to ask, but I stop. No one cares about Oliver Sacks around here, neither do I anymore. All I know is that God hiccuped when he triggered the gun, jumped off the cliff, or droned into his own blood in the bath tub. Was he listening to a favorite piece? or he didn't even care? His eternal music, nevertheless, has been chosen: Dance Macabre, sung by joyous worms and hungry beetles...  

1

... In my dream, the rye is a hidden wonderland, full of rabbit holes. I'm digging inside one of them. first, nothing much to see; in a fearful darkness, alone, doubting about the idea of coming inside at the first place. Feeling unhappy and distressed, by hearing the voice of people chatting and laughing right above my head, on the surface. "Am I crazy? Should I climb back?" I say to myself. Then, I remember a vague promising feeling: "When I was up on the surface, there was something deeply wrong, about everything." So, I dig more. No sounds, nothing smells the same, still dark, but stones start to shine. Further and further, bridges and towers, signs and sounds... Finally, I see it; the symposium,  the pandemonium of the spirits, my godly world. I have found the path, I am one of them...  "What about the other holes?" I ask. Then I move on, digging to the other side. There is a darkness, of course, in this path too, but my hearth is at peace, and my mind is sharp. Unknown obstacles, new doubts, but, finally, again, the ultimate depth of the neighbor hole. I have built the deep canal. I have found a new neighborhood of bon sens.  And this happens again and again, more and more holes, more and more canals, more and more cheerful quarters. I have built my city of wonders; deep down the holes, whimsical chambers, filled with enchanted fellows. Incipit fresh air... This is my city... This is Baghdad.