Oh Come, All Ye Sitars


I’m playing Oh Come, All Ye Faithful on the sitar. I’m wondering if I can busk with sitar Xmas songs. The neck of the sitar vanishes, and the gourd of the body opens up, like a black leather flower inside. A tortoiseshell cat asks me how big I can make it. She wants to sit inside it. 
I’m in a shop full of music equipment. Outside, a young black guy tells me that there’s just a few more things I need to buy to be successful. I tell him I’ve had enough. I push him through the shop window. Me and a friend pelt him with fx pedals. I’m so pissed off. The guy changes, fights back, becomes taller, white, balding. He attacks my friend, pushing his face into a barbecue. I don’t know if I should fight or flight. The bald guy runs, I see he’s out of steam, we grab him, hold him down, and punch and kick him until he is subdued. 
I feel sorry for him. We’ve managed to stay sober for two years, he’s struggled with it. He hasn’t found any meaning in his life, nothing to replace the drugs we used to take together. 

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