I lost my eighth arm in the usual way. A man took it, and I was lucky to escape with my life. Afterward, this man enchanted my arm until it was charred and blackened. Afterward, unintimidated by its pugilistic contraction, he cut my arm into pieces and ate it, and through that process, I became him and he me and yes. And yes: I began to dream of the drylands.
They are not so dry.
It rains there. The air is wet, and the people have water in their bodies.
And they are musicians.