The bus I’m traveling on is passing through a bookshop ample enough to accommodate traffic. A large sign indicates an opera section. I’m uncertain how close I am to my destination but what I see on display is so seductive, I get off anyway. Something, I don’t remember what, thwarts my intention of acquiring new volumes. (Perhaps, in a Kierkegaardian mode, I discover it is the sign itself that is for sale?) I’m not especially dejected; being in the shop is in itself exhilarating.
When I arrive home, I have an unexpected visitor waiting for me, an affable, dark haired man with a moustache, slightly older than me. Even in the dream I know I haven’t met him before (I think he’s a friend of a friend) but I take an instant liking to him. The fellow tells me he’s blind (I sense this is a very recent and temporary affliction or perhaps I even suspect him of faking it) and asks me to read him a certain story. I open up the book and begin reading to him. It’s a violent detective story but it also teaches me a lot about Beethoven. Further, (shades of Michael Ende!) it appears to be writing itself as I go along.