I dreamt that I was riding a chair through a large city at dusk. Made of wood, unpainted, and weathered, the chair looked rather old, but there was nothing special about it. I was in slippers. Holding onto the seat with both hands, I sat straight up. The chair responded to my wishes. It sped up when I wanted it to speed up, and it slowed down when I wanted it to slow down. This is how the chair changed direction, as well. There were not too many people in the streets. I remember overtaking a motorcycle at some point. A young fellow with his girlfriend behind him was taken aback by my vehicle, but he did not race me. He slowed down, instead. I also remember a couple of kids at a street corner marveling at my contraption. “At first I thought it had wheels,” one of them shouted. “Just a chair,” cried another. I zoomed past them without looking. The chair simply glided over the ground without touching it, as did my slippers. When I woke up, I realized that any old crack in the road would undo me. But riding an old chair was an unprecedented joy.