dear friend,

last night I dreamed about your chickens. My life is lonely and sad and pretty much empty. I regret the things I’ve done, or rather not done. I keep failing to do anything meaningful or substantive, but am repeatedly unable to bestir myself. This will be nothing new to you.

Walking to work, I take the used tissue from my pocket and blow my nose and notice how the tissue smells like cinnamon gum which smells nothing like cinnamon.

Everything feels counterfeit, like a shell of something real.

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