I dreamt of my father last night and he was still young and lucid, still himself. We were standing outside an extraordinarily tall skyscraper that was covered in points and spires and the insides were all deco and mahogany and brass-and-glass elevators with domed tops. I told him I would not go inside because it was full of ghosts and jumpers, full of suicides and it made me sad and afraid but he insisted on going in and he disappeared through the glass doors and then he was a ghost too. A melancholy dream. I kept looking up from the sidewalk for falling bodies.
All of my dreams are ghost stories.