I fell asleep the moment someone whispered Let’s Get the Show on the Road, and suddenly I was in a car that wouldn’t stop playing the Driving Song—then the Driving Song again, echoing backward as I drifted through the clouds. I made silent Pleas to the universe while Bears Gone Fishing marched past the windshield wearing Panic shirts.
At the venue, I was greeted by Saint Ex, who introduced me to Greta, who turned into a Bowlegged Woman mid-sentence and pointed toward the stage. Billy Strings appeared like an Action Man carved from pure Rock, ripping notes so sharp they peeled off my Second Skin. Someone shouted that Henry Parsons Died, and the crowd gasped, then immediately danced harder when he showed up selling grilled cheese.
I tripped over Jack, got pecked by talking Pigeons, and was handed a glowing Protein Drink stirred by a floating Sewing Machine. The band showed Mercy for one breath, then Bust it Big, flooding the dream with Chilly Water that lifted us all six inches off the ground.
When the music faded, we were Pickin’ Up the Pieces of the sky itself, instinctively knowing to Climb to Safety—and that’s when I woke up, ears ringing, heart full, absolutely certain I’d been there.
