Sometimes when I know there is no hope of reaching some destination in my dream my friend's car pulls up, opens its door, and we set off. My friend, alas, is dead even in dreams so there’s no one behind the wheel, but the car is used to driving itself. Even when I first knew it, decades ago, it was more the idea of a car than the thing itself, as if the pieces of many old machines -- only some of them cars -- had found themselves in proximity to each other and decided to pretend to be a car. It has bumpers meant for a bigger vehicle and its rear windows cannot be lowered. To keep things in balance, the front windows cannot be raised. It knows I am not its master but remembers me as someone who always needed a ride.