I dreamt about her, she who appears only in my dreams--an amalgam of all the women I have ever loved or even will love, possibly.  Time is probably an illusion, after all.  She took my hand and lead me through the City, that compilation of burnished steel and concrete from all the cities I have ever seen, or will see.  Past impossibly tall buildings and swift-moving, dark-suited men and women and black-clad policemen and dogs, large and small, being walked on leashes, we came to the green fields.  We lay on the sward--the sky utterly, painfully blue above us, the sun blazing in furious majesty--we lay holding one another, whispering each to each the secrets of our existence, silly and profound, in our ears.  Then I said something, delved some niche in my soul, that she found repulsive, with which she could not deal.  She stood up, her form outlined against the sky, the sun too bright to see her face.  She looked down at me, still lying there, shivering.  "I pity you," she said aloud.  And she turned and began to walk away, to a place I could not follow.