None of these towers of steel and concrete and glass their spires stabbing the night and bloodying the blackness with sickly fluorescent glow could say a word about the magnificence of mountains. It was a struggle for power, as if the City was afraid of being overcome and had waged war with the sky. I felt no life, saw no beauty. In comparison to the miracle of green and perfect balance of Vermont's truth and quiet, this unreal sky seemed small, insignificant, a shame.
In my dream, John drove while I sat in the passenger seat, looking out to green parks filled with sunshine. John asked, "Stephen, do you think you'll want to stay in New York City your entire life?"
The question surprised me. I answered honestly: "Well, John, I've been thinking that I'd like more trees in my life. More green. Some mountains would be nice."
"Ah, that's good," John replied. "Because I've been thinking of moving the magazine out of the city."
The answer surprised me.
That's all I remember.