I had a dream about your time in Madrid - all foggy technicolor and whitewashed walls. Hundreds of TVs in a gallery, spectators filing in to wrinkle their brows and contemplate the meanings of things - TVs behind doors, on shelves, embedded in the wall. Behind a curtain, under socks and pants and a vinyl glove, I watched the Spanish boy and the wallet and the streetcleaner and you. I awoke humming a tune.