I haven’t had time to think of Don Quixote this week, let alone pick up the sadly neglected hardcover edition from my shelf to start reading, but my brain must be preparing me for the endeavor, eager to start, because I had a dream this morning about sighting what looked like windmills on the horizon of a vast desert, but which were I think just several people waving their arms for me to stop and chat with them, and riding a horse that I wasn’t allergic to, and noting with surprise now and then the presence of a companion, whom I alternately ignored and berated—and with the general impression that life should be lived as a dream, or as several dreams at once. At one point I asked my companion what he thought of this mission, living life as a dream, or as several dreams at once, but didn’t hear his response because I had hurried my horse forward, aware that my question had not been asked properly and that the proper question, or the proper proposition perhaps, lay just ahead on that horizon with the waving arms. But when I reached them, these relentlessly flapping arms which were indeed attached to human bodies but were in the shape of long, narrow paddles, my horse stopped and I heard a very distinct godlike voice all around me: “Stay tuned for next week, when our narrator meets the Lady of La Mancha.” Then a fade to black. And then I woke up.