I woke up (within a dream), looked out my window and saw that my new upstairs neighbor (there is no upstairs unit here) stored his cello by hanging it from a kite. I went up to the roof and found a copy of the neighbor’s self-published, glossy, lavishly illustrated but poorly bound book.
The book’s introduction assured me that he had never lost an instrument stored in this way, other than that one flute; but then the book went on and on about rivers (natural or diverted) and bridges, whose bearing on the subject was not obvious. My reading was interrupted by knocks on some door.