A recurring dream. We're leaving her parents house. It's the last rowhouse on one of many small streets crossing a hill, each street overlooking the city like a step on a staircase. The sun has just now set and you can still feel its heat permeating the air. We reach the crossing. She wants to turn right, go down the hill, but I insist we climb it for one last look at what remains of the waning day. As we climb, the hill seems to become steeper. By the time I reach the summit, she's been there for a couple of minutes. I'm panting, out of breath, as I look on the meadows and forests rolling down the other side of the hill into the distant horizon, with the huge, golden disc of a full moon, just barely risen. I wake.