I woke up in my bed. There had been a lot of guitars, none of them were interesting. A drunk guy sent me off to a bookstore to become a famous guitarist. He had a list of books he wanted me to play. I recorded the whole affair on an old can of corn. Inside the can, the Titanic had just hit an iceberg, which, in the dream, had been a mountain of lettuces. Tiny ants were gesticulating wildly in a corn-ocean that was compressed inside a tin cylinder.

No one was coming to save them.

Do you have any plastic webbing? I asked the walls filled with shelves. One of them handed me a girlfriend. “She’s a good one, but somewhere inside her is Saturn,” it advised. She seemed pretty enough, but had so many pockets filled with strangers that I began to check my bank account. That’s when a Bank Teller walked in and slapped me, hard, across my right cheek. I was going to say something, but my tongue was made of paper. It folded and folded, like an oragami emperor.

I looked at the list the drunk guy gave me. It said “This is an old book about exotic beers.” The letters were living bees, and kept rearranging themselves. After a moment, it said, “This is an old beer about exotic books.” I asked the bat-faced man for a cup; he gave me an orchid. I really liked this flower, and was going to give it to my girlfriend but when I turned to her she was only a tracing made of spider-webs in which a few flies had become entangled. Where her pockets had been there were feathers.

“Isn’t this guy a famous guitar-player?,” I asked the guy behind the counter. “No,” he said. “A long time ago he was a rock-star, but a squadron of violins surrounded his house and he became a drunk guy with a big collection of guitar-strings.” “Don’t you have this book in stock?”, I asked. “We used to, but now it’s rare. You can only find it by taking certain pages from an assortment of books, and binding them together.”

— from Alkitab Alssaghir (The Little Book)