Last night I wrote you a love letter. I was wine-drunk, but not in a sweet way; I was losing my vision by the time I was finished but there were no mistakes. I was thinking about you, and trying to describe you, and looking for you through the torrents of nausea and whirling, fading, rabbit-white walls. The voices of my friends became oneiric whispers as I fell asleep on the couch with the lights on. 

Last night I fought with my friends. No hands were raised, no bitterness could be found in our words– yet I fought, because I had seen something and now could not convince them it existed. Only I had seen it, in the perennial darkness, hiding there– something terrifying and quite beautiful. What was there to be said? What was there to be done? Only I knew it was there, and it seemed it would stay that way. Still my friends all doubt me. 

Last night I pulled over on the freeway. I opened the door and found myself in front of an endless barren field. Carefully, very carefully, I twisted over a barbed-wire fence and began to walk. I don’t know how far I walked, but I only walked in one direction. The sounds of the freeway began to soften. Above me spun white turbines like angels. As I walked over ridges, down hills, through valleys, I saw the earth being the earth, becoming the grass, and turning into the sky. The farther I walked, the less things seemed to not be one another. 

Last night I cried. I made the sound of a settling house and I held my face like a soup bowl and wept. My face swelled up and reddened like a wound, like a carnival balloon. If the lights were on or off, I could not tell. If my friends had left or were still with me, I did not know. I shook like a wet dog. I cried so hard that I forgot if crying was natural. I cried so hard that I forgot if crying was real. I thought, am I the first person in history to cry?