This isn't the letter I promised

Dear K,

I dreamt I was being convicted of murder, and sentenced to death, and I had six months to go on a roadtrip with my family and my girlfriend, and I pushed them all away so I could finish my novel, and we went to old barns and I cried every day of those six months. Big wet tears of humility and stupidity, it's what the cows cry on the slaughterhouse ramps. I cried tears of salt and bile. And there she was the girl I loved to kiss them away and cry with me because our time was so short.

And of course I didn't do it, and I kept trying to figure out who would think I possibly killed someone, and I wanted to solve the mystery of the murder and where the real killer was, but I knew I wouldn't do it in time, I only had six months in that dream and I'd rather spend them living and dying in the arms of my loved ones. So I did, and the dream ended with me walking up the courthouse steps.


Last night I ran into a girl I took on a date last week. She said let's smoke a cigarette and get pizza and talk, and then I left her there on the street because she was talking to everyone else but me.

I guess what I'm saying is sometimes I want to be convicted of murder. I want to find out who my lover is.

This isn't the letter I promised, but it counts as a post.

K