Blog,
after writing to you I landed at memory.
I remember my first time in Chicago, with both of my parents.
I was excited to see an Eva Hesse sculpture--remembering the first time I felt my body as a material.
Blog, my body is a material of memory.
When I visited Chicago, my friend Kate took the train into the city.
We met in Minneapolis, a year before.
We walked from the lake to river, which is what we did most of the times she visited.
Once we went to the symphony.
Once we went to Maria's, which she was willing to walk to.
She asked the bartender if she could have the rest of the bottle of seltzer. He said no.
Once we watched a performance and drank wine at the lake, near Old Town, before walking to the train station.
She is convinced she can walk anywhere.
Blog, I am amongst some of my closest friends, and living in memory.
Memory is malleable.
I have been reading the symbols like dreams.
Like glitter.
Blog, how often do I write ending in glitter?
Blog, I think about being blown by wind,
and light messing up everything, like an echo.
Blog, I am worried I sound desperate,
writing, hoping you are a transgression.
Are you, blog?
Blog, I am worried I feel lonely, in Minnesota.
Blog, last night I dreamt all the stages of grief.
I dreamt my friend Remi asked me to bike to Lower Manhattan.
I dreamt they asked me not to arrive, and I texted L. and she didn't respond.
I cried when I woke up, blog. Soft. As if the tears were sweets.
I made coffee.
I read for a while.
I wrote an email.
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