In Don Russ's collection of poetry, Dream Driving, life is a journey. It has dream-like stages, apparitions, visions, and revelations. The journey itself is in some ways a dream, a sleep-wandering among the labyrinths of the mind, of the imagined world, of even the "real" world. What can we finally know for sure? Do we not at least partly create what we see in the act of seeing it?