10.14

[I can't come up with anything beautiful or terrible to write about. I am out of practice. I need to go to bed and I haven't even brushed my teeth. I didn't eat a cookie tonight, though they were sitting on the counter calling to me. This is adulthood. I would trade it for anything.]

Do you remember the days when we didn't know where we would wake up? One or the other of us would drive until the sun was on the other side of the world and the lights in our heads had gone bleary and grey and neither of us could see the other one for what they were, and then we would stop and muscle the car into some exotic parking lot space between a tweaker's rig and a college student's Prius and there we would sleep until something ephemeral about the other reached out to tell us that the lights were grown sharp and dim again, fit for illuminating nothing but the other person's face, and we would stretch and ignore the view. I don't think I looked at the mountains or at you in all that time, but I know that I saw. I don't know if we could go back there—any going back is a death—but I would like to have been there, again, now, if you know what I mean. But you can't. The lights are gone colorless and the world is dark. Sleep, and we'll see what we don't look at in the morning.