I had a dream about you. You were playing the piano in a bar lit by neon blue lights. Smoke hung in the air like a cloud that never rains. I asked if you could play the song, “The Meat In My Fridge Never Goes Rotten,” but you claimed to have never heard it. I started humming a few bars when the FDA burst in the bar and arrested me because unless a song about meat is fed with genetically modified corn, it is illegal and punishable by death.