Indulge me once more? A strange and astonishing followup...

[Jonathan]

And this story continues. I have, on numerous occasions and in a variety of settings (in a few short days), recounted a dream in which I was playing for everyone and no one. A magical, ethereal experience. The music, it was too beautiful for words. The sound of the instrument, magnificent to the point of absurdity. Though not explicitly stated within the dream itself, I knew the maker of the pipes and all of the instrument’s minute details. It was a rare thing—something that, upon awakening, I was certain I would never see, never play. As it turns out, the Universe, she has a mind of her own.

A friend gets in touch, says he’s read my tale. Says he owns the instrument I had so vividly imagined. Shock, disbelief. He sends a picture, and sacred sh*t, it’s the one. Says he’s leaving town for a while, do I want to look after it? I wonder if I’m imagining all this. He lives in my town, and to my recollection, I have no idea that this thing exists. We’ve only ever fluted and drummed together. I don’t believe it. I have this precious thing in my hands now, and I still don’t believe it. I played for hours that night—I was bruised, sweating, and delirious from exertion and lack of sleep. I slept two hours and woke up with pain and a burning desire to play, just play. Had to wait, couldn’t sleep, got up and wrote furiously. Nothing more to write— I just listened. Ennis, Clancy, Reck, O’Flynn, O’Brien, McNamara. My god, those men make me weep. Passion, nuance, history… it’s all there. Volumes could be written on a single performance; there’s so much narrative and drama in each one. Why have I wasted so much time? No matter. There’s time yet, I hope, and the journey itself is too exhilarating.

I sleep another three hours, only waiting to awake. I wake up and play, just play. Hours… Days, maybe. The pain is there, and so is the joy—I’m starting to gain control. The instrument speaks with such little effort on my part. I can’t endure more than 10 minutes at a time; the exquisite beauty overloads my senses. Each note has personality, complexity, majesty. A story of a lifetime is told with each one. It is too much. I put the pipes down, feign to read, only fall asleep. I wake up with intense thirst and quench it with glass after glass. I reflect on my circumstance. How did this happen, and why, and surely it means something? These are strange thoughts, foreign thoughts for a mind that tries so fiercely to be logical. But the events remain, and they aren’t imagined, as far as one can tell. The only certainty is that which sits before me: an extraordinary work of art—one that will provide lifetimes of bliss and wonder. And one that I must relinquish.

There is too much beauty in this world.

[RobBBQ]

Dream about winning the lottery and sharing the prize with your friends next, mate! Ha ha -r

[Jonathan]

That's at the top of the to-do list, my friend, and you'll be the first to know!

[TheSilverSpear]

Fifty Shades of Bottom D.

[Steampacket]

How long is it since you last left your chambers? You must be feverish surely? Has Edgar left a message?

[highwood]

There is too much beauty in this world.

I only wish that were true.

Though there is much beauty if you look for it and appreciate it.

[glands]

I'll sell you my Quinn set in c