I’m really not sure, to be honest. Every day I choose to love, or so I’ve been told, but the only thing I remember choosing every day is living like a human being. Love is stardust, and kisses on the forehead, and linked pinkies, and freshly cooked food, and crawling out of bed without leaving my spine behind in there. The most I’ll be able to show you is my continued subsistence.

Look. I just inhaled. Now I’ve exhaled. Now I’ve inhaled again. The world is full of love, isn’t it.

I did, I did. Thank you for asking. I brought two pieces of bread, ham, cheddar, and half a tomato to work. Separated, of course, lest the ingredients get soggy. I kept it in a blue Tupperware box. On my lunch break I put them together, bread-cheddar-tomato-ham-bread, and ate the whole thing with two hands. It was alright.

None of it got on my nails, either. I got them done two days ago—they’re light blue with little daisies. I think you’d like them.

I dedicated its making to you. Consecrated it.

I think the Tupperware knows you by name. I hope that’s enough.

Always.

Oh, neat. Where?

I could send you a photo of them?

And I like knowing. That must be why we get along so well.

I saw a dog today. It reminded me of you.

It was an old white dog, ensconced in an old lady’s purse. The fur around its eyes was dark with tears, and it snuffled so loudly in my direction that I was briefly convinced I’d put a rib-eye steak in my backpack on accident.

I wish I could’ve. I think the lady would’ve kneecapped me for harassing her lifeline.

Seemed really soft, though. Like a shag rug with its pile knotted together after years of compression.

It was exceedingly cute.

Better, now that I’ve talked to you.

It’s everything.

Talk to you soon?