A gig. Speakers arranged as a giant drum kit. A twelve piece choir, a small orchestra.
John Candy directs them from an organ at the front. It’s connected to a huge desk with a display showing a map of the Soviet Union. I want to take photos. John wants me to digitise music from a 3d scan of his nasal interior. His nose glows green and transparent as he asks me, revealing a fine structure of nasal hairs.
In the distance, Attila the Stockbroker plays on a smaller stage.
The speaker drums have been taken down. I put them back up, I want to take a photo.
I’m inside my flat. It’s been garishly decorated. I like it. The speaker drum kit is now a normal kit. Tinsel for cymbals.
I look for my phone to take photos. It’s in a pair of tie dyed trousers I used to own. They’re ripped. I struggle to put them on.
My landlady comes in to grab an ironing board. We talk about Howard, my recently deceased neighbour. I’m still shocked by his sudden death. Outside, I hear John Candy’s voice, he’s returning home.