After that, I set out alone on a quest to find resources to redeem our losses. This somehow involved me creating public art. I wound up on in-line skates on a one-lane country road in New Zealand's Wairoa Valley. The sun was high, but I was also casting low shadows to the east, as if there were a second light source near the western horizon — think blast shadows, Hiroshima style. Except instead of destruction, everywhere my shadows touched brass ran and set as if cast to mold made from those shadows. I kept doing flips and jetés to leave graceful, bright scrollwork man-high on the sides of houses, fences, retaining walls and embankments. A trail of strange glory stretched behind me. An empty road ran before me.
Often in my dreams there is a musical score. Usually it's original compositions, rather than recycled from the listening of my waking hours. This dream was no exception. A rich, mellow cello played a slow and mournful melody while a soprano choir sang wordless vocal harmony. Or perhaps the voices were singing in a language I did not comprehend.
Waking saddened me.