On a chill dawn after a dim night, a series of good omens. Little Baby Simon at the airport engages me in an imitative game: his mouth emits a series of pure tones and red, blue and greenish glows, and it's my job to keep up. My first recording vanishes from the shelves of Amoeba music and into the homes of unsuspecting listeners. When I awake my sleeping bag is gone and my pillow is at my feet.