I keep having the kind of dreams that most people only enjoy when they smoke something.
In an episode of this one I met a glum couple in late middle age who cherished a steam-driven parlor organ that their late, untimely deceased son had loved to play. They coaxed me to start up the mechanism and, once a burst of steam could be evoked from its engine, spray a burst of some sort of coolant into it. The steam took on the shadowy form of a young man in the clothes a person of probably my father’s generation would have worn for a formal photo, hat included, and I could hear his name: “Victor — Victor.” I was left wondering if this was some kind of medium’s trick or what the point was.
I have no idea if anyone ever invented a steam driven organ of any kind. I can’t even think what it would involve.
You know there are people who just dream of being naked in the breakroom.