In the deeps of the night, in Barney’s dreams, he hears music. When he awakes, he searches for the sounds of his dreams, in sky and under earth and in the shapes of the coffee grounds [pomegranite seeds. ]. He walks the earth alone, asking the running sap of the trees and the dew drop sliding from an unfurling frond, and because he searches always, because he listens everywhere except to the hawker on the street, sometimes he hears where the music may be found. And then, if he can make it to that place, and if the moon is in the right phase for the oracle to make herself visible, he will see in the rubber left by a car tyre or the shadow of a shifting leaf, clearly and distinctly, a phone number.
Hope that it is yours.
Hope that you answer the call.

Barney is like antarctica. Everybody loves him. Everybody wants him to continue in his remote and spotless way, unaffected by politics or the ways of the world.
But nobody wants to go there.