I've got my legs under the covers, my daughter next to me, the cat burrowing between us. I'm reading The Hobbitt. We're on the chapter where the dwarves are prisoners of the elven king and Bilbo walks around the palace and its vicinity with his ring on, wondering what to do next. There's a passage that describes his plight in terms eerily similar to the movie Groundhog Day. My eyes are tiring. I lose my place, nearly drift off. And then I get a vision of a European-style 1960s apartment building, all degraded Modernist right angles. I can make out a white car in front, roof and hood sloped, but it's not a Citroen or any other model I recognize. I'm jolted out of this ever-so-brief reverie by a, "Dad?," and proceed on in the book, wondering what I always wonder, which is how the flotsam and jetsam in my stream of consciousness is connected, if at all. Later, when we come to the part where Bilbo stuffs the dwarves he's freed into empty barrels and they all float downstream, I think back to the incongruity of my anachronistic moment. Maybe the items bobbing up and down are linked only by the fact of their floating downstream together. But what sets the stream in motion?