The historic find.

you wouldn't expect to find Igor Stravinsky roaming the streets of Copenhagen. But it was unmistakable. He stands out in the croud, like a green flavored giraffe. Perhaps it was an alternate reality. (Perhaps?!) There was a giant sandworm devouring one of the busses , don't ask me to pronounce the name of the street. (All names were in Cantonese but written in gothic).

I let shai hulud slither by, singing to myself the old nursery song, you know...'the wheels on the bus go tesseract tesseract tesseract..' The bus was quantum-entangled with it's rout, so it rematerialized, mostly unscathed on the next stop, with just a few teeth stuck on the roof. It reminded me of the paperback i was reading in the airport, Re-omletting for beginners. A very detailed textbook about how to unmake an egg, and then make it again. Fascinating read, if only the last three chapers were torn by some miscreant.

Sravinsky was not aware of sandworm's passage. i dont know what goes on in that guy's mind. Is it conflicting bitonality? Polyrythems from the Russisn heartlands? Cognizant marionetts? Well if he can't be bothered to notice the great maker (blessed be it), then he won't notice me and my sticky fingers. Or so i thought.

I walked past a pack of amorous velociraptors, their communal affection to each other touching in a way, but I could not spend time on that, unfortunately. This is a one-shot deal.

He walked on, buying a hot cup of broxy stew from a kyosk. Is he not afraid of the many diseases that could inflict him?

The thought sickened me. I drew closer, smelling the ghastly stew. I came closer still and reached my hand inside his pocket. But Igor Stravinsky is not someone to pickpocket! Growing up in Tsarist Russia teaches you a thing or two about street urchins. He scalded me with the stew, which burned more by the sense of failure it represented, than the actual temprature which was remarkably low for a fatty stew. i guess in Copenhagen, people drink borxy stew cold on Thursdays.

'You total failure!!' Mocked me the surrealist in contempt.

I was still recovering from the shock of the cold broth.

'You will never amount to anything!! You can't even pick my pocket right, can you?'

'But maestro, i just need to know...i must know...what does a great man like you hold in his pockets!' I protested.

'What i hold in my pocket is non of your business. NONE. Now, go harass someone else, i belive i saw Elgar walking a while back. '

'I don't give a damn about Elgar and his Pomp and Circumstance, really tell me all i need to know about his pockets. No! No No No No! It has to be you' i demanded, trying to clean my hand with a wet wipe.

'Please maestro! Surly you can understand the need. Haven't you ever burned to know the contents of someone else's pockets?!'

'Don't call me Shirley. My name is igor. And yes, i have once burned with the passion of curiosity. I remember an oboe player once, who had something in his pocket, but..but it is immetirial! What would this world be if we just delve into other people's pockets to satisfy our curiosity?!'

'It is not a bad thing to be curious...i'll tell you what. Maybe you are a tad curious to see what is inside my pockets?'

'Not in the least'

'Not even a bit?'

'No. You are not interesting enough. '

'What if i told you that i have a pitch for the disney company. for the third fantasia film. '

'That doesnt interest anyone. Both films were flops. '

'Both filns used your scores'

'So? Is it my fault they did things so badly. They cut off entire parts of the firebird...for what? At least the didnt touch

my Patrushka i despise Disney! But just so i know, what was your pitch? '

'Got you interested?'

'da...i mean yes..just for the fun of it...'

'Ok...i was going to suggest a scene with a treasure hunt. Guys running around with a map...you know X marks the spot...they dig it up and find the skeleton of mickey mouse. '

'Intetesting...what would be the music set for that?'

'The 1812 overture?'

'Ha! Too obvious. '

'Ok...how about the Bachianas Brasileiras?'

'Vila lobos?...hmm.....which one...'

'Maybe the aria...'

'Too depressing...how about the Appalachian Trail. '

'Copland? I tbought you hated his work.'

'Oh..i do...i do...which is why its perfect for Disney!'

'Ok. Ok. Appalachian Trail it is...now, could you show me what's inside your pockets?'

'Fine. Here...' And with that, Igor Stravinsky emptied his pockets. The contents were:

A jaw-harp,

A box of crayons,

A third edition paperback edition of re-omletting for beginners,

Three apricots,

A telescopic baton,

The keys to a Mazda Lantis.

32 Krönner,

A small bottle of disinfectant.

We parted ways amicably, me to post my discovery, and he, no doubt to read his copy of the book.