Music was our first love, but there was little time for that. For years we assembled our ideas cautiously as we travelled from land to land, compiling our survey. One day we were drawn to a tavern by the sound of singing. A fatal error. The tune of the gipsy fiddle gave us glimpses of a reality we had long buried deep beneath the surface. All kinds of dead people came to life, an old skull, lain long in the snow, abandoned in search of something more exotic and otherworldly, whatever could be lifted and turned slowly to reflect the light coming from the next room. A fat man smiled behind the counter, shelves of impossibly coloured bottles just an arm's reach away. A girl with a dark wing of hair across her temple approached our table.