I had a dream about you last night, but I don’t remember it. At this point—I abuse marijuana. I, myself, have been abused in the past so it makes sense. In no such way is any of this sensible, but I appreciate the familiarity. I told my friend Alfonso he needs to read more. I think he took it as a compliment. I’m pretty sure he recycled the list of books I gave him: it was absolutely filled with ones I figured he’d like. We’ve all been there. I should’ve written it on some joint papers, or something, so we could’ve smoked it. Smoking words—I think it is necessary.

            When I press him to read more, Alfonso scoffs, “I just don’t care to.” This is dramatically incomprehensible to me, practically horrifying. “I don’t like it; I have no interest.” I treat his words like the crisis they are. It actually stings me and makes me feel depressed—a peculiar state of mind and body I’ve come to find comfort in. It’s a dream of mind to die alone, to pass on without settling my burdens on someone else. Hopefully, all that would be left is my writing. Finally—I could be remembered and forgotten respectively.

            “I literally just left twenty minutes ago.” And I can’t stop that; leave when you need to. Maybe I am crazier than I thought. I think you are aware. “If you need me, I’ll be upstairs in the library.” Alright. I can get down with that. I was there just the other day: I pulled out a chunk of my hair and left it in one of the books in the American Literature section. It felt like the humane thing to do. I’m keen with personal space—respectful—but you’ll just have to remind me. Two minutes and forty-four seconds: the concentric way to describe my day. I’ve been sitting in the library for an hour now and you’re not here. Let me just think for a second. I think that’s all it takes. “We’ll see,” you say. Nobody is safe from my writing. I need to cut my crude fingernails, they’re way too long. It’s the easy things I put off the longest.

            I appreciate where this is going no matter how hungry I am. One meal a day is just fine. And ink on my hands: let’s not forget my love for that. I spell out words in between the joints of my fingers because it makes me smile, or, at least, has me thinking about smiling. Sometimes I wished I lived in prison; I have a fantasy about being detained and jailed for something I didn’t do. Think of all the time I’d have to read and write. It’s too hard to love someone like that; it’s too easy to fantasize. The only thing I love, really, is the pain in my chest that reminds me of an early death. I think I am fine with not being able to breathe. I’ll just sleep it off.

            You ask if I slept well in Italian. And I tell you I did in Spanglish. I really didn’t—must be the language barrier. You tell me you’re learning French in Russian, but I need to English translation for that. Two hours are long deceased now and I’m still in the library, somewhere between the periodicals and B350s. I like the aesthetic of banana peels on wooden coffee tables. But, you know that. I haven’t told you that I cum easily.

            “I’m almost certain I was made in Mexico.”

            “Okay—I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

            I laugh nervously, “I’m not sure why I’m telling you, either.”

            “Are you saying your parents conceived you there?”

            “I think.”

            “You’re an odd one.”

            “That’s why you love me.”

            “I’m almost certain.”