The 7th of April 2006 – Leicester, England

(found imagined to being found)

Dear Tracy,

Of course you’ll never get this. It will sit on the carpet by my desk and collect dust.

Can you believe the dust? I just spent the afternoon on my hands and knees with a rag, wiping down the baseboards because of the dust. It never stops.

Of course that isn’t it. I might as well be asking you about the weather. How is the weather, by the way? Can you believe the weather? It never stops.

And yes, and yes, I know that that isn’t it either.

Tracy, I’m dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Of you, dreaming. Yes.

Nothing serious, nothing to be cause for any alarm whatsoever. But dreaming. And it’s enough to make me never want to open my eyes again.

Oh, to dream. Yes, to dream. Of you, yes.

Smiling. Hands clasped. Underneath blue skies. Clouds floating over us. Shafts of sunshine streaming down. Green grass cushions feet. Our hands together. Lips smiling. Dreaming.


And there’s nothing to be done. Of course, that isn’t it. There’s everything to be done about it. There’s the whole damn world to be done about it. There’s fire and ice and electricity and power and joy and love. And there’s dreaming.

Maybe that’s where it will stay. Dreaming, dream, dreamt.

Smiling, right. Smiling. How. Yes.




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