I wake in a large guest room with Jesse and his entourage of wind and water spirits. There is a whining chorus of nymphs and there is also the rambunctious and bearded Beaver Supreme. We are rehearsing the vocal tracks for my next album. Worried that we'll wake the rest of the bed and breakfast I try to convince them to whisper, but they resent this suggestion deeply and grow ever more boisterous. Outside in the dining room I pass by the solitary table of Abdul Qadeer Khan, Pakistan's nuclear weapons czar. He is inconsolable, and in a single gesture he peels the entire oily skin off of an enormous roast turkey. Only later do I learn that he has recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer. And I think: Butterfield on Giambologna.