The Isle of Abandoned Drugs and Music


I’m walking home from Scotland. I walk my friends dog past a greek woman with many tiny dogs the fluffiness of chicks, that walk in line like centipedes.
The path stops at a river. I can’t see a way across. A woman with me explains there’s a path, just beneath the surface. We step onto it, and I call my dog, who splashes and swims towards us. 
There’s an island, with ruins. We go in. I find instruments inside. Some in cases. A corner full of giant bass instruments, including a giant dilruba/Indian clarinet hybrid. I want it. We discuss if it’s legal. We decide it is. I take the lovely instrument, and carry on looking around. Locals are there, rummaging about. I call my dog, and he runs up, partly covered in a painted pattern. He is excited. He’s found something. 
We follow him down into an old garage in the cellar. In the pump room, we find a hidden door, and behind this, a red room with hiding spaces full of drugs and alcohol. I decide it’s time to leave. In the corridor outside, police walk past. I rush upstairs, grab the instrument, and leave with my Indian parents and siblings. I’m wearing a turban. We walk up some stairs and find ourselves in Aberdeen. I wonder how we will get home. 
I remember discussing artwork for an album, and talks with investors. If I can make my music self-supporting, I will. 

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