a Love Letter

The streets have gone quiet, hibernating under government mandate and restless worry. We are all busying ourselves overmedicating and overdrinking and undersmiling, I spend my days reading about the Dust Bowl because aren't we all just looking for a blueprint somehow and the ground has turned to sand. I sleep soundly in the silence, but not as well. I left this city before, time and time again, and all I did was sleep: sleep was never what I was looking for, at all.

An earthquake rattles Tonopah, the strange desert town of infinite galaxies in the night, and you remember just what it was to be in a bubble, how you are never alone when the word is your companion. That is the lesson, you think. The New York Public Library publishes an album of New York City sounds from before, and you sink into its chaotic comfort, while you remain inside your padlocked room. I am never alone when the word is my companion.

This is how you write your way out.