Clinging to a little sheet of scrap metal, myself and three friends soar along the canal towards a monastery on the hill. Before we cross into the next county, two of us are asleep. Losing my strength, I guide us to touch down at a filling station where another group of friends is filling themselves up with air. Later I am waiting to be picked up by my parents with my drug-addled music editor. He watches over my shoulder as I compose, then rearrange, a piece that ends as follows: "...you must be twitterpated."