I had a dream of being awake in a dream in which I was one of the last people on earth. There was still coffee in this sparsely populated future. I sought caffeination in a stark white chamber. Glenn Miller’s horn section echoed off the white floors and white bow-truss ceiling. The notes tried to convince me of something, but I couldn’t decipher the message. I sat at a white table, sipping from a white cup a meticulously prepared cafe latté. My lips gently disturbed a flourish of steamed milk. White light streamed through white windows. My deprived senses wanted the noise of color: one bright yellow table, a bucket of paint spilled across the floor and stepped through. Light shifted outside, as cars glided silently past. A picture window displayed a red and yellow mural, green summer leaves, and the blue sky of a morning that was already hot. My cup emptied and I wanted more, but I woke from the dream into another dream, in which I had a job in a very large building somewhere near water.
