I dreamt that I was painting large things with a huge, soft brush. The paint was thick and viscous. I am not sure what it was that I was painting, but it could have been either pieces of sculpture or elaborate furniture with smooth curvatures. The joy was in the painting, or painting as such. That is, applying paint. The colors I was using were wonderful, as well, but I do not remember mixing them myself. First it was a peculiar red. It had a lot of white and a touch of yellow in it. And then it was a particular blue. Once again, it had a lot of white and a touch of yellow in it. When I woke up, I realized that the two colors were complementary. It took me a while to give them names, but I ended up with earth red and sky blue. The colors reminded me of Colorado or Arizona, the landscapes of which I once saw from the car in the early Seventies. But my dream was mainly about applying paint. There was something visceral in the exercise. It was an enormous pleasure wielding a huge brush with long and soft hairs. The smoothness of the paint itself was no less than thrilling.