I dreamt that I was writing a play about a famous Broadway actor contemplating retirement from the theater and his three sons from as many failed marriages. I was staying in New York indefinitely so as to talk to all the protagonists of the play as often as I could. The sons got along quite well, but they had rather different attitudes toward their father. One wanted to sue him for many things he did or did not do as a father, another was very much against going to court even though he agreed that the actor was an abominable father, and the third was almost indifferent toward the actor but cherished his brothers. The gist of my play was that they were damned if they went to court, but that they were still damned if they did not. The four of them got so entangled in the pending court case about fatherhood that they could never extricate themselves again. As my familiarity with the story grew, I became ever more confused about my own rôle in it. Was I the father, one of the sons, or all of them together? Was I for or against the court case? This is how I felt after I woke up, as well. My beloved woke up soon afterwards and greeted me with the following words: “I dreamt that I bought an apartment in New York.” When I told her about my dream, we both laughed.