I was in a good dream all day with Corky: we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge just for the sake of walking. The sky was blue-going-to-green, that oceanic sky, the beckoning one. And we were racing fast along the promenade deck, remnant of the great ocean liners. Easy to imagine men in swallow tailed coats and women with wide hats approaching. Blindness, all mist for me, and the dear light, fresh and wonderfully unrevealing. For the blind light is a mystery–a literal one, less a problem of physics and more a matter of interpretation. Its dream light. The light of the Greek underworld. Any moment my grandmother was likely to appear from the green-blue haze amid the glittering rails and she would tell me of her Lutheran heaven. We were having a jogger’s reverie, Corky and I. We passed two slow runners. I wondered what my guide dog’s dream was like.
Planet of the Blind 