Sleep Dream. I am at the Cedar St. house of Grāvele. It is sunny, spring. I’m in the kitchen (which waking Vitauts doesn’t at all remember) by myself. The space feels odd, but not at all threatening, a bit sterile, like no one really lives there, like a motel. There is going to be some sort of Latvian gathering there. In though the back door arrive half a dozen or so people. A tall and hefty fellow comes right up to me, smiling tentatively, as if he knows me. I’m not certain who he is, but feel OK with it. He holds out his right hand.
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