Dear Sweetheart,

I fall asleep reading a book set in San Francisco and find that the
"impossibly beautiful" bald man from a few pages ago has just had his head
cracked open with the butt of a shotgun he is bleeding himself into a dark
pool next to the new TV which has already been switched on 47 times. Empty,
Alcatraz sits in the center of whirling ships and clouds of pelicans that
break formation to smash themselves into the blue water after chunks of
bread and swollen fish. It is late afternoon I breathe deeply the beaches
are filled the pool is spreading into the kitchen Paris is sleeping and an
ocean liner is racing magnificently towards the gleaming red bridge