Flying with no instruments, following roads that used to be rivers

I'm in the old cockpit and every instrument is blank — no compass, no artificial horizon, just the glare of a white sky. I know the route anyway, catch myself following river bends that turn out to be highways, and the map in my hands keeps rewriting itself. I wake up before I land. That's the thing about thirty years of navigation: even your dreams won't let you set down without a crosscheck.