Don't you hate it when people tell you their dreams

You know, they say things like: "I had this dream... There was this man, and he was my father. No! No, no, no - wait, he was... My uncle! And, no, no, no, wait - he was my father! No, uh, wait, I'm not sure..."

And you say: "Please don't tell me your dream." But they go on anyway

"Yeah, I think, yeah – it was my father. And he, and, he had this bloody severed head."

And they tell you this dream like it was a movie you might wanna see sometime. And not something that's happening only in the back of their own head

You know, a while ago, I was in Germany. And I walked into a huge recording studio. And in the middle of the studio was a man. Wearing no clothes. Playing the flute. And covered with flies. And there were enormous mics all over the room. And, when I got closer, I realized the mics were all tiny microphones – attached all over his body

And these mics picked up every little sound. So the engineers kept saying: "Uh, we can hear your shirt rustling. Can you take it off?"

And a few minutes later: "Um, your pants are really loud. They're gonna have to go too. And, and y'know, the shoes are deafening."

So he was standing there shivering and playing. And there were mics inside the flute too. That recorded his breath, as it blew through the tube. And turned into notes

And in the mix, the sounds from all the microphones combined into a huge symphony. And when you put headphones on, the sound was really soft... Spatial...

The breath rushes into one ear and curves around the top of your skull. And chords. And harmonics. And turns around and around, and blows out the other ear. So being in your head, is like being in a huge draughty bar. With the wind blowing through

No, it wasn't like being in a head filled with brains, and blood, and teeth. But something completely light, and empty. And full of wind. And music