This was a dream. And how I discovered all my paintings are the picture of Dorian Gray. I’m gonna cross wires a bit here, so if you have questions ask away. I’ll do my best to correspond.

An honor ceremony for Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who wrote the children’s classic, THE LITTLE PRINCE. I was there for a reason I’ll come to shortly, but for now it’s only important to know I was there in error. The book was published in 1943, and its author died a year later. I have an Anchor-Doubleday paperback that was likely published in the sixties—I will follow up on that in the comments. The author’s family treated me with hostility because I thought a different person, Alain de Botton, who is actually British and still alive and, I hope, well, wrote it. Just a changeroo in my head. Nobody had heard of him, and when it was clear I, an admirer of THE LITTLE PRINCE, had mistaken him for an entirely different person it became clear I was not welcome.

That’s fine, but why was I there! In that auditorium? In that dream? I mean, why did my brain need to put me there? I think one of the primary difficulties in problem-solving is the recognition of a problem. That’s the real obstacle. Solving is actually easy. As humans we’re eager to solve. In painting I keep thinking to myself at the risk of mania, why is it more beautiful in my private universe?

Not a lot left to say in terms of story. They didn’t want me there. Truthfully, I had also mistaken THE LITTLE PRINCE for THE HAPPY PRINCE—Oscar Wilde. Sure, I felt guilty. Who was I? Why did I even know about this ceremony to which I was in malicious fate bound to attend?

A great-granddaughter of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry had been showing me where the exit was. And, I ruined her night. That was implied. But what about Winslow Homer’s painting ‘The Fox Hunt’, what about Belle and Sebastian’s ‘Fox in the Snow’?

She looked at me like I was crazy, but at least I made it clear why I was there—even if I couldn’t get the fuck out of there fast enough.

I kept dreaming, but it was mostly a blur of handwritten sheet music. Some people inhabit their own places, their own empty heavens, and the desolation that lies beyond is off limits. They’re never gonna make a dime.