Twilight. I'm in an overgrown Civil War era graveyard looking for esoteric markings on the headstones. Walking up to one of them I strain to make out the inscription until suddenly it becomes clear that it's a large swastika. Loud and clear, vaguely luminous. Then a man who looks like an old, gray Walt Whitman (but thinner and less robust) approaches from the forest and stands in front of me. He's wearing an old fashioned hat and clothes. I try to look into his eyes but I can't find them - his orbits are pools of shadow. He is expressionless and I'm worried he thinks I'm a Nazi.

Suddenly I'm back at the cabin but some of the walls have been removed to create a more open-plan space. It's dark inside and filled with unfamiliar people. There are thousands of empty beer cans on the floor, counters and every other surface and thousands more to drink. Entire cases. Fizzing. Liminal. I wonder where the guys are but I'm reluctant to go outside and look. Something dangerous is happening out there. I think they may be shooting guns. Moving amongst the crowd I come upon Eddie Vedder, drink in hand. He's shorter than I thought and worried about being recognized. He wordlessly dismisses me and slips away into the darkness.

Then Scott Partch comes up to my side and puts a hand to my ear. I can't see him but I recognize his voice. He asks: "Remember that baby we buried last time we were up here?"

What? All I can come up with is a childhood memory of burying my little orange cat in the garden. She was wrapped in her favorite afghan.

I shake my head and can feel his breath on my ear when he says:

"We dug it back up."