I awoke to hailstones rattling against my windowpane. The dream had floored me. I was at a kind of birthday party in honor of myself, but everyone there was an elder or a stranger. The food was good, the wine was good, the dessert was great, and the coffee was fantastic. Then there was a 16mm film, projected on the wall. It was a street in Manhattan in the early 80s. The camera tracked down the street as everything slipped past: people walking, people running, watches sold, clothes worn. A movie was being made on a side street. Someone was mugged. The light was increasing so it must have been dawn; "The Sounds of Silence" faded in and played against the scene. Then we, the party, slipped down a side street and were at the edge of a cliff in pitch blackness. A country road wound around us and boxy Jettas cruised past with no lights on. We crossed the road and realized that the drivers couldn't see us, all the time talking, talking, like a great family party should, like The Cherry Orchard. We crossed back and entered the Manhattan street through an alley where a dozen men crouched. It was lighter there. Then the hail came.