I dreamt that I was with Dorian in a glassed-in balcony covered with carpets and low furniture—a bit like my room in Reading. We were at a high ground floor typical of Georgian houses in London. There were no doors between the balcony, which was both long and wide, and the livingroom behind us. Presumably, this was our home. Like the balcony, the livingroom was rich in color. Lauren was someplace in the house. Dorian and I were reading, I think. At some point I noticed that a bunch of homeless men had congregated in a sheltered place underneath the balcony of the neighboring house. There were at least six of them, and some of them looked like drunks. They did no look toward us, but one of them suddenly appeared just behind the balcony parapet. We could see only his ruddy head through the glass. He and I exchanged greetings and started talking. I am not sure what we talked about, but it was clear that he was encouraged by my friendliness. To my amazement, he joined Dorian and me when I looked the other way for a moment. He sat down next to me as though this was the most natural thing in the world. I remember looking up to see how he could scale the glass at all, let alone with such speed. There was a gap between the roof of the balcony and the glass, but I could not imagine that he could squeeze through it with ease. I glanced at the fellow’s mates out there, wondering whether they could all come in like this, but they were still not paying us any attention. I continued talking with the fellow, but the only thing I remember is that he turned out to be from Scotland. When I asked where exactly was he from, he declared with pride that he was from way up north. And then he told me that he would like a beefsteak. He was not insolent at all, but I could imagine him becoming difficult if I kept being so nice with him. Just like that, he wanted a beefsteak! I laughed, telling him that I did not remember when was the last time I had a beefsteak myself. It took me a little while to persuade him that we did not have anything of the sort in the house. Realizing that I was in a bit of a pickle, I called Lauren. If she were around to take care of Dorian, I could figure out what to do with the fellow. She appeared with Maya, who had just returned home, and with a large parcel that had just arrived for Lauren by post. Maya was quite tall. She was seven or maybe eight. I had not seen her for a long time, I realized. I remember thinking of telling the homeless fellow that I could not deal with him at this moment because I have not seen my daughter for years. She stood awkwardly in front of me when I tried to hug her. The last thing I remember is that Lauren opened the package, which contained a proposal of hers for a show. She was quite distraught because her proposal was rejected. Oblivious to the homeless man, as well as to the rest of us, she spread out the contents of the package on the floor and knelt over them. I remember a number of black-and-white photographs showing large paintings with figures that were reminiscent of Malevich’s peasants. A few figures were placed on each canvass, of which there were four or five. The figures floated on almost blank surfaces. The paintings were horizontal, covering entire walls. Lauren took a black magic marker and began effacing the figures on her paintings. She was furious. She was sobbing loudly, cursing with abandon her luck with gallerists. And then I woke up.