Hi Sleepy.
Tonight we stand together on the edge of something that maybe was never there to begin with. I talk about the third arm that vanished, the cliff that never was, and the Pope I almost licked.
We float through cathedral ceilings and asphalt plains, childhood fears and ABBA-induced tears, trying not to fall—or at least not fall alone.
There’s Harriet, singing in the car. There’s my dad, holding a band-aid like a book title. And there’s you, Sleepy, drifting beside me in the strange safety of storytelling. Loss isn’t just absence. It’s surprise.
Sleep Tight!
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