I have assurances that Amos shall return. He will stride ashore, his pants wet to the knees, corncob pipe in mouth and his gimme cap cocked at a jaunty angle, whistling the theme from "Welcome Back, Kotter."

I know this because I saw it in a dream last night after scrying for three hours straight in bottles of "Dead Man's Ale." (I also learnt that it's best not to scry over spilt beer.)