I had a dream we were speeding along anonymous coastal roads scouting books. No sounds, just quick cinematic cuts of eyes & smiles, cobbled streets, oceans, old stone buildings all dim & walled floor to ceiling with musty titles. It could have been New Brunswick or Ireland or France. It was New Irelance. The car is traveling fast and the windows are a blur of mossy green and slate gray. Verdant fields dappled with boulders. At a country crossroads we turn our heads to look at all the prose & poetry accumulating in the backseat.