Sometimes I dream in excruciating detail.

"So why don't you just fix it?"1

The catepillar peers over my shoulder, exhaling a lazy stream of sweetly scented purple smoke.2

I cough and wave the fumes out of my face, casting a sidelong glare at him. "Because it's not that simple," I reply through clenched teeth. "And if you're really intent on slowly poisoning yourself with that hookah, please refrain from blowing the smoke directly into my eyes."3

He smirks and sits back on his hind legs, crossing all three pairs of arms across his chest. "Relax, sirrah. My pipe contains nothing more harmful than lavender blossom, rose hips, and chai."4

I sigh heavily and turn back to the issue at hand, which is the smashed 12-string guitar in front of me. Being neither a magician nor a luthier, I have no idea how to even begin repairing the broken instrument.5

My frustrations are not helped in the slightest by the fact that my hands have just morphed into seahorses, which galumph happily around my ankles. One of them trumpets Beethoven's 9th Symphony, while the other screeches bad country music in the voice of Miley Cyrus.6

The catepillar chuckles at the spectacle, despite my inability to find any humor in the situation. "Never say never," he says, turning to me as a puff of violet wafts in my direction. "One cannot fathom the depths of human psyche and imagination until you've seen yourself in yourself in yourself."7

The seahorses/hands whinny in agreement, spouting tiny bursts of flame. The guitar begins to shake violently and explodes into bubbles of white light, which alight upon my arms and whisper things I cannot hear.8

When I wake, the catepillar's laughter rings in my ears.