The old master visits the Bazaar. Even behind the scarf that he has wrapped tightly across the lower half of his face to protect against the sandstorms he is clearly recognisable, all the more so for the cat perched on his shoulder wearing goggles and a protective scarf of their own. It is not clear which one of them will have more whiskers hidden. As he gathers sackfuls of vinyl from the shelves you find it hard to focus on him directly. Aftershapes, ghosts, dopplegangers move in and around the space he has or will occupy, younger men, older men, some resembling the old master, some not. A crowd of faces solidify behind him momentarily, the present day composers who refuse to die, looking over his shoulder as he scribbles down a newly created score on the back of the original 1967 Smile album he has come to purchase, some nodding approvingly, others whispering to themsleves "I wish I had thought of that". The beaded curtain over the door sommersaults in, distracting you, and when you look back the old master and his cat are gone, the feline scarf falling to the floor in time to the sound of music fading into the distance.