I’m going away and, when I get back, I’m going to have the kind of clarity TV show characters have, momentarily, though sometimes it sticks, and when it does, it’s very rarely regretted, like only 60% of the time: marginally.

I’m going to stand on a completely different concrete coast and forget about the shapes the land makes where you are, invitations bestowed and opinions of people I don’t know, who apparently think that I’m great. The people who know me truly, I guess they’d say the same. It’s me that knows different.

And I’m going to erase your number, would if it were in there, but I didn’t know what to log you under, except the obvious, and I can’t concrete that, can I loser?

When I get back, I won’t question words my mouth makes. A delicious dream, this, like last night’s, with less kissing. I’ll tell you about it sometime. As you tell yours.