Letter 3

Dear _____,

I slept so soundly the other night that it brought to mind a song lyric about dreamless sleep. It took all day for me to come up with it: “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

I saw friends from the way back. Where will home be if B&D leave Whippany?

The developer has books unrelated to his job organized at his desk. Ray Bradbury, Margaret Atwood. Jesus Christ.

M said: “My grandmother told us, ‘When I die, I want that lady to play at my funeral.’ ‘Grandma, what lady?’ She meant Lady Gaga.”

But last night I dreamed. I was in a comedy where the romantic leads were Rachel Bloom and Andy Samberg. He pretended to take a shower by pouring a bottle of seltzer all over his face. This happened in silhouette, in a bedroom back-lit by light pouring through the slats of Eighties blinds (which is the only way I can think of to describe them to you).

I jogged to the East River and found a tree near Stuyvesant Cove with several flat stones fanned around its trunk. I sat and tried to meditate. I heard the rhythmic footfalls of runners, birds in the tree, and the sound of rustling plastic so near to me that I opened my eyes to find a fisherman setting up across the path. The whir of the FDR. Runners chatting. “Berlin is great! So flat.” A man’s voice directed squarely at me: “Hey, the Black Knight was just arrested for a DWI!” I puzzled over this but kept my eyes closed. He must have meant Harvey, the Dark Knight, in some trash-talking response to my Mets cap, but it was Tiger Woods that was arrested, wasn’t it? And who yells at a guy sitting under a tree? I'll have to try waking up earlier, I think.

A band from college wrote a song whose refrain came to me today: “It’s so hard to say anything these days.”

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