I dreamed I was in Afghanistan on holiday. Anne Murray and I were touring the country with a bus load of fellow Canadians. The hash was fucking excellent. And Anne's hair was perfect.
One of the places we visited was an old stone library. The library consisted of many rooms built on many levels. There were books in the library printed in every language from our spiralling planet.
On the ground floor, in the great building's atrium, a small stream meandered. In the shallow stream were trout swimming about. Anne elbowed me in the ribs when she saw the fish. "I should sing a song about them!"
The trout were not regular trout. They were not rainbows, browns or brookies. These trout poked their head out of the water and looked at you, looked at you for a long time, blinking, before going back to swimming around like trout usually do.