It is as though the air has stopped having air in it. I part my lips wider and try to inhale, knowing their is air, feeling it when I tilt my head, but it is too hot, too tight, to enter my lungs.

I swing out with my hand, finding the quilt and shoving it away from me. I sit up in bed, the sudden rush of air-conditioner washing over me as I gulp in rapid breaths. My heart is racing and my hair is soaked with sweat, but I cool off as my body calms down, at last able to breathe the filtered air.

I squint up at the ceiling, watching an odd shadow pass along its bumpy surface. I look over at the window, hearing the low, rumbling woosh as a car drives passed my house.

Slowly, quietly, I lay back down on my bed, flipping my pillow over so my head will be cushioned by the inevitable cool side.

I rest my hand on my stomach, frowing. I try to recall what I had been dreaming, but its memory has left me.

Perhaps, I think, that I will remember it later. But I know that it really doesn't matter whether or not I remember, because sooner or later, I always forget.

Reaching down, I find my quilt and pull it back up to my chin and close my eyes.