Between dreams, I found myself in Belgrade of my youth. I was walking from one street to another and stopping by the doors of buildings where my friends or friends of my parents lived. On Jovanova Street, I stopped by the building where Beli and Gordana Ristić lived with their son, Predrag. On Jevremova Street, I stopped by the building where Alyosha Kišpredilov lived. On the Seventh of July Street I stopped by the building where Vojin Tošić lived. On Rige od Fere Street I stopped by the building where Rada Iveković, Vera Makiedo, and Izidor Papo lived. I even went as far as Kosmajska Street and stopped by the building where Darja Mladineo, my girlfriend of many years, lived with her mother, Zdenka. Images of every street and every doorway were sharp in my mind’s eye. As I kept walking, I was not sure whether I was dreaming or not. All the streets were deserted, though. And everything I saw was devoid of color. To the best of my recollection, it was almost black-and-white, just like photographs of the period. The last memory of my walk is a strong wish to return to Belgrade and spend a few days walking through all the streets I visited between dreams. But the wish faded by the time I woke up in the morning. The city of my youth is still alive in my mind only, where I can revisit it on rare occasion. Returning to it in any other way is but a pipedream.