I dreamt that I met two people who had just completed my biography. They were a mother and a son. She was about seventy-five and he was some twenty years younger than her. I remember her gray hair pulled into a small bun, as well as his thick, graying hair parted in the middle. I met them in a publisher’s office, where they were tying together with twine a hefty manuscript of at least a thousand pages. Their job was done. I am not sure what I was doing at the publisher’s, though. To my surprise, my biographers were far from delighted to see me. They would not show me their manuscript, either. The mother only wanted to ask me about my contacts with a man called something like Powell, but I could not recollect ever meeting such a man. She would not help me in any way with my recollection. And that was all. I remember feeling awkward with my biographers. When I woke up, that feeling was still with me. What could it be in my biography that could explain their sullen faces?