I was dreaming. Standing at the top of a very steep grassy hill that dropped to the river. Far below me built along the bank were skinny multi-storied houses. Michael Pemulis was standing behind me having just confirmed that the museum was closed. Staffers were dispersing to their cars, waving goodbyes and see-you-tomorrows to each other. I turned back towards the river thinking "I've always thought I'd like to live down there, but now I'm not so sure".
There was that unmistakable sound of glasses clinking together, only sustained, like you would hear if you've ever lived near a train or other rail type track, which I do not. I was awake and standing in the backyard half expecting to see Pemulis there squeezing a tennis ball. It was raining.