Every night, as a child, I slept in the cavernous belly of the double bass. It was a family heirloom that leaned, swathed in cobwebs, in the corner of the room. As I slept with my head tucked under the bass bar, resonances of concertos and sessions and street corner busking worked their way under my ear drums and into my dreams. I dreamt prophetically, dreams full of xxx's and moon's and 216's. I walked along dwight street in a city I'd never seen before, or cycled past zinc kitchen with five minutes before showtime. My recurring nightmare was the horrifying enigma of mic two and three.

Now, I am less of a child (dimensionally). I sleep in a bed. Sure, I spoon my bass. And now I cycle in reality with ample minutes before showtime to fill your ear cauliflowers with two - six minute antidotes to living outside the belly of an instrument.