Moist. Invisible.

I had been up in the dream for some days in a row with Bob Dylan traveling the bowels of America, ingesting the weird hurt things there - Bob played me a song about this American trip later; he called it "Syria" - when Bob finally spoke in a somewhat understandable way, saying something like:

"Modern recording technology (he points to human, maybe dog silhouettes dancing in the distance) allows all the pieces to be put into one big broken piece again." He looks at me somewhat pleadingly: Did I see? The dancing silhouettes break into pieces.

Later, a doctor visits. "Would it help," he asks, looking directly at me, "if you were moist? Invisible?"