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Frank Miller awoke sometime just after 1 am. He felt his heart racing. He could actually hear it beating. Was
that the cause of the music in his dream, he wondered? Was it all just his own chubby body playing tricks on
him? He could hear the blood moving in his veins and arteries. It pulsed with every heartbeat and sounded
like it was scraping along the insides of the blood vessels. There was almost harmony to it, he thought. His
entire living being was making music. His breathing, his heart, the blood: all of them added symphonic
resonance to his consciousness and he felt himself attune to his surroundings in a way he had never felt
before. He could feel the pores of his body open to the night air, and every hair on his body stood tall in the
spiritual electricity that was part of him now. And in the distance, not in his bedroom, from somewhere
outside his house, from somewhere in the night, from the forest, he could hear something that sounded
familiar. Like singing. It was incredible. It was beautiful. It sounded like his dream. He rose from his bed and
started to follow the music.
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