In the dream, an artist -- mid-40s, blonde, someone well-known -- and I were chatting on a country road in what looked like rural New York state. I couldn't recall his name; it was on the tip of my tongue, and I felt increasingly awkward as a result.
He seemed amused by my lapse of memory, yet wouldn't tell me who he was.
As we talked, I looked down at a puddle left by a tire track in some road-side mud. I saw an old cloth-covered art history book face down in the ditch, sodden and mud-stained, with faded gold letters on the spine:
A P O L L O
Shifting my head ever so slightly, I saw the picture-perfect reflection of the sky in the mud-puddle, bright sunlight streaming through cumulus then dissolving along the reflection's left edge into muddy pages.
Sharing it in this very public forum since I have no other pix to share.
A dream-fragment like this in a week full of business? Priceless.