I dreamt that I was a member of a team making a documentary about a famous film director who had recently died. He was forever after mystery. And he was fascinated by the ice and extreme cold. Many of his movies ended up close to one of the poles. I remember seeing fascinating black-and-white footage of strange boats designed by intrepid explorers. I also remember visiting several spots that fascinated the great director, who kept returning to them all his life. Some were in the Himalayas and others in the Andes. Ice and extreme cold enveloped these places. But the main idea that was shaping in my mind after so much close contact with the famous man’s work was that the only thing he had ever discovered in his search of mystery were other men forever after mystery. More important, it was obvious to me that there was no mystery in anything that he touched with the exception of the universal search after mystery. And that was the only mystery worth exploring in the documentary. If there is no mystery at all, why are people tirelessly searching after it with such tremendous zeal? This thought kept pestering me when I woke up, as well. After a while, it was clear I could not fall back to sleep. It was late enough, anyhow. As for the mystery of mystery, it is squarely in the domain of brain scientists. All else is bunkum.