A funny thing happened to me in the float tank

For me, float sessions vary.
Yes, they are always deeply profoundly relaxing, reaching that special state we call "afloat".
I prefer no music when I am floating but once I decided to experiment.
The music I chose was Peter Schickle version of PDQ Bach Cantata and Fugue, (I think).
(The label is damaged).
(No chance of a sale on ebay in that condition so what the heck?)
It was difficult because I only have a vinyl version and that is scratched from the days of sharpened wooden needles, not accupuncture, - gramophones.
However it was done and timed not to begin the session but to start after twenty minutes, when I knew I would be more or less asleep. Supine and asleep, hands at my sides, centred perfectly in the float tank by the rythym of my slow breathing.
I know it was played, I have witnesses, (well I had witnesses before I wrote this blog).
I have no recollection, no conscious recollection of hearing the disturbing work yet I feel I remembered the applause.
Obviously it entered directly into my subconscious where it resides.
Jung called it synchronicity.
Do you recall the famous scarab incident? Must I recount it here ? You can google "Jung scarab" and find out. Not "young scarab" that is a completely different subject.
Anyway, the record mentioned, you may know already, has a reference to the possibility that PDQ Bach's melodic form or somesuch stuff, marked him out to be potentially the greatest billiard player of all time. What a loss.
As I said I had no recollection after the session but went on my way home until I found I was in a strange part of town, I had been daydreaming or just daying, and I was lost. I had arrived at a snooker hall in a back street, the door already ajar and the clinking sounds of balls colliding, the softer thuds of the cushions and the smell of beer and cigarettes. Not my usual haunt.
I felt compelled to enter and adjusting to the dark interior I edged around the walls to observe the several tables and the small clusters of bent men. One table in particular had a small crowd, rapt by the progress of the game in play. I slid sideways until I could see through a gap between chalked elbows. The green beize was lit by the huge lampshade hanging above casting nose shadows on the distant faces on the far side of the table. There were just two balls left, the black and the white. The lay was tricky, black against the cushion. I assumed from the tangible tension that the result now hung on this last ball. One man was bent low nose almost touching, his cue pistonning in and out in empty air as he assessed, every forward stroke not quite touching the white.

I was unable to understand his angle, so I waited with the others but suddenly a black bird flew in the door and straight over the table in a swift, squarking, panicked, dash. The cue struck the white low, it lifted movinf too fast to see well, but it struck the nearest man on the head and bounced up, straight up, just as the flapping flag of a bird turned and made for the door, the chink of light his hope of another day. By Jove, he caught that ball and departed with it outside and was never seen again.

Pandemonium reigned. Shouts of "Omen" filled the air, and other words, until suddenly silence as, to a man, they turned and noticed me hovering at the side, a stranger. Twenty staring faces, startled, amazed.

I had to say somthing: my mind blanked.
From somewhere deep I found myself, heard myself saying
"Four points away. I think."