I don’t write about dreams because that’s like a shit cliché

You made dinner. It wasn’t tinned tuna debacle but gourmet like TV chefs make in pristine kitchens they say are theirs but we know they’re not. Your sister helped you. Not that you needed help: not what I meant. She was there and someone else was. I can’t place them for profile pictures. Maybe I conjured like bit part sitcoms, first draft mistake grammar.

You sent me on day trips. I saw mountains, by train/boat/road, fairground loops and antique shops, graffiti.

I got back and we were alone. I forget the plot though there was one. Along lines of, “We speak on Facebook, so why not person?” Any good idea, or the opposite of it, was a last year fake tan layer impossible to naked eye see now. But nothing’s ever gone, even myelin. It’s still swimming in your spine a month once it’s free.

And this was the answer to questions of avenue, what we’d say if we’d branched it, seven years ago. No colossal screwing it up.

But we’re imperfect people. Can’t even get 100% on internet tests we definitely know all the answers to. We’re acquainted with error like Medea, and Jessica Simpson. We’re that undercooked minute that could quietly kill.

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