Some hidden person plucks a sitar string. For a moment you think your underwear elastic has gone again, but then a buzz from a tambura and you're aware you're having a religious experience. 'Urgh,' you think and lay down on the floor. There is a severe, sour look on your face.
Bobby Callender steps through the kitchen wall just like a ghost, raises an amused eyebrow at you down there on the floor. You can see right up his fucking hemp poncho. His balls look like two Buddhas and the willy pipe bit looks like Jesus Christ, our lord and saviour, complete with beard and stigmata. An angel runs her fingers across a golden harp up in heaven. God gives her a look. Callender helps himself to a seat on the floor. He sits cross-legged at your head. His poncho smells of stale sweat, your Nan's belongings, marijuana.
'My child,' he says, looking down into your eyes.
At length Callender establishes a link between the pineal gland, all earthly religion, and the constellation of Sirius. His voice is soft and sweet and you can tell he's had a lot of orgasms in his life. You feel peaceful looking up at the kitchen ceiling listening to him speak, and your expression softens. Now the plain magnolia artex takes on oil film colours, pleasantly muted and swirling slightly. You can almost make out the forms of angels up there, naked, dancing in beautiful gardens. You sigh and heavy smoke spills out of your mouth. 'Was I smoking something?' You think. No, it is your soul, golden, undulating, rising up to the ceiling to be with the angels in their dance.
An indeterminate amount of time later, you wake up with a start. It's dark outside. On the kitchen counter is a receipt: 24 months subscription to The Way magazine.
Note: I like this album very much.