A Low, Greasy Odor

In the dream, I took Ivanečka to visit Tony in a sort of limbo. It was not Austin, but a version of Austin existing suspended in a haze of tiny particles, partially shimmering, partially absorbing the greyish light. We arrived in some sort of topless vehicle. It appeared at first glance to be a narrow car with one seat for the driver and behind one seat for a passenger, but its sensation was that of a fleshy tube. Superficially, it had an illusion of antiquity, but my mind knew this was no antique place. I was to one side, looking down onto the “vehicle” and Tony was in the driver’s seat, looking back at Ivanečka. I told him This is my wife. They wormed their way out of the “vehicle” and then he was ushering us into his domicile. Tony had changed dramatically from the last time I’d seen him in 2011. He wore a tank-top. He looked relatively “in-shape”. He had no gut. He wore a queasy mustache. His accent was a vague blend of latino and slav. I thought nothing of it. Time had passed, of…