Do electric ghost turtles dream of radioactive worm desser

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Waking up in a sweat, Macorph resolved that very day to overcome any hesitation and ask the lady in the costume department out for coffee. So what if the dream remained an enigma? Maybe she would have an idea what it meant. Maybe it would make for an interesting topic if they needed to break the ice after they'd sat down with their drinks. Maybe she even spoke Italian! There was no need to bring up a perfectly interesting topic for conversation during what opportunity for small talk the day would afford when it could be saved, he reasoned, and though he was terribly nervous, he was certain he could make quick work of his goal.

Macorph was never to reach the theatre, however, for in his distracted state, he drove clear off the road and was taken for drunk when emergency services spied him talking to his turtle upon arrival at the scene of the accident. That night, as he slept in a holding cell, he dreamt that he was attending a lecture given by a Mephistophelian demon-type who was proceeding thus:

One key to the nature of Socrates lies in that curious phenomenon known as Socrates' daimonion. In exceptional situations, when his tremendous intelligence faltered, he found guidance in a divine voice that spoke at such moments. That voice admonishes each time it comes. In this quite abnormal character, instinctive wisdom appears only to hinder conscious knowledge at certain points. While in all productive people instinct is the power of creativity and affirmation, and consciousness assumes a critical and dissuasive role, in Socrates instinct becomes the critic, consciousness the creator - a monstrosity per defectum! And what we see is a monster defectus of any mystical talent, so that Socrates might be described as the embodiment of the non-mystic, whose logical nature has developed through superfetation, just as excessively as has instinctive wisdom in the mystic. On the other hand, however, no logical impulse in Socrates was able to turn against itself in the slightest; in this unbroken torrent it showed a natural power such as we encounter only, to our awed astonishment, amongst the greatest instinctive forces. Anyone who, in the writings of Plato, has experienced the merest hint of the divine naïveté and certainty of the Socratic life will also feel how the tremendous driving-wheel of logical Socratism is in motion behind Socrates, so to speak, and how it must be seen though Socrates as through a shadow. Where art was concerned, the despotic logician had the sense of a lacuna, a void, something of a reproach, of a possibly neglected duty. He told his friends in prison that he often had a dream in which he was told: 'Socrates, make music!' Until shortly before his death he drew comfort from the idea that his philosophy was the highest of the arts, spurning the notion that a deity might remind him of 'vulgar, popular music'. To salve his conscience entirely, he finally resolved in prison to make the very art he held in such low esteem. And with this attitude he wrote a hymn to Apollo and put some Aesopian fables into verse. It was something similar to the admonishing voice of his daemon that urged him to carry out these exercises, his Apolline realization that, like a barbarian king, he was unable to understand a noble divine image, and risked blaspheming that deity by his incomprehension. This voice of the Socratic dream vision is the only indication that he ever gave any consideration to the limitations of logic. He was obliged to ask: 'Is that which is unintelligible to me necessarily unintelligent? Might there be a realm of wisdom from which the logician is excluded? Might art even be a necessary correlative and supplement to science?'

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