Last night my dreams were particularly vivid. Seriously. I dreamt hard. I dreamt that I was in that same hotel room I always dream. Yes, that one. The one with the slightly orangish decor. Wait, it isn't a hotel. It's a motel. That is important. The smell of hot concrete from the parking lot floods the room every time you open the door. You never open the window because there is an AC windo unit in the window. Plus, it is hot. Hot enough to make concrete fragrant. You don't open the door, unless necessary. Hence, the smell of hot concrete is only a memory in your dream. The AC chugs along wetly in the background. The tv is on, but not loud enough to hear properly, only serving as vague background noise. Perhaps someone is in the shower, or it seems the shower is running.

Yes. That room.

It still has the same faux woodprint formica covered table it always does, right there by the window. The rough drapes are drawn closed, like always. The chairs are still covered with slightly cracked orange naugahyde. The same half -filled smoked glass ash tray is sitting in middle of the table. I'm sitting in one chair at the table and opposite of me is my father. Silent as always. Silent and smoking. I am frustrated and mute. He is perhaps contemplative, but more muley than anything else. He remains mute.

Sometimes I start to compulsively smoke from the packet of cigarettes thrown on the table (marlboro). This time I don't.

I wake up with cigarette smoke filling my nose and making me want to retch. I'm devestated as always after this dream and it takes me much of the morning to shake the feeling of despair in my heart.