Last night I dreamt I had to swim across Lake Tuscaloosa while carrying poems on my back.
It was a competition. Backstroke, breaststroke, all these bodies laughing and trying to keep the sealed envelopes from getting wet. We weren't allowed to read the poems until we reached the other side. I did very poorly because my poem was so, so heavy. That's fitting. Lately: all my heavy intentions leave me tired all day, everyday.
In other news I wrote a story about the man in the moon. Whose name is Charles. And I guess it's about more than that. It's about bones and questions and my mother. And sex. Inevitably.
I have had a cold for two weeks. This is no good. It is very hard to seduce a boy you like when you're all sniffly.
When I reached the other side of the lake and opened my envelope, it was the Canterbury Tales. That's why it was so heavy.
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