Sometimes I dream I can't hardly play the guitar at all and sometimes I dream I can play it a hundred miles an hour. Just the other day, I dreamt I was hanging out with Bob Dylan. He was his weird self, the Dylan everyone but no one knows. We rode over hill and dale in a Jeep, I think. He gave me a guitar at a certain point, and in my hands it was quickly reduced to some precious piece of porcelain, or scrimshaw, God knows what; I was meant to play it by plucking its delicate tines emerging in two toothy rows outta sorta half-shell of something all of a sudden, all sculpted and pretty. I did the best I could and made a honking twang or two, the noise of a fumbling ignoramus, like the toot you make on a flute after several breathy attempts, if you don't know from a flute. And last night I dreamt I sat down in a darkened living room with an unplugged electric guitar and played extremely fast, the pick flickering across the street, across the strings I mean - it was a dream but on the money - like a hummingbird's wings.