I dreamt that I chanced upon Goran Đorđević, my old friend, whom I have not seen for many years. Two or three years my junior, he looked much older than when I last saw him. If I remember correctly, he was reclining on a park bench. Both of his arms were resting on the back of the bench. Across the path from him there sat a man I did not know. In his fifties, he listened to Goran, who seemed to be in a preaching mood. Speaking in a distinct Belgrade jargon, my friend was explaining why everything in life changes when you reach the age of sixty-five. There was a whole theory behind it, and it smacked of numerology to me. Having listened to him for a while, I approached him from behind and hugged him warmly. When I asked him how he was, he showed me his calloused hands. “Working hard in my retirement!” he laughed. His fingers were covered with blisters. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I could not believe that Goran and I have lost touch. He was quite central to my ideas about the art world, but we drifted apart ever since I left it for good. I went back to sleep with his appropriations of Mondrian and Malevich in front of my eyes. The joy of seeing those mesmerizing paintings was still with me when I woke up in the morning.