Because the power is out for the house in my mind, I am thinking about gifts and walls. In my room on the mountain, I cry into my phone like a balcony. By now I am predictable. By now my body is halved on the bed. By now D.’s voice like a record. Earlier, I listened to a motivational speech while I stepped around the roots of redwood trees. The speech insisted like tempo on the need of joy, which I decided to mishear as the speed of joy. As in, Do you notice [at] the [sp]eed of joy? I love this question. That I can say, I am training my noticing. That I can say, I am running a few minutes late, construction, blue sunlight, the map of a palm, I will meet you at joy soon.

Tonight, a call with my father over Facebook Messenger in a dream. It’s been 381 days since the last, which makes it, on average, a yearly tradition like hail. In the dream, he follows along with my life like a pop-up book. He can tell me where I am, how long I’ve been there, what bodies of water I’ve stood beside. He’ll say I wish you didn’t move so far and. Most of it silence like when your eyes are closed before sleep. He’ll ask What’s new. This time I said, Today I saw a play where a boy tamed a wolf named Ocean. He’ll say What. I’ll say Today a boy tamed a wolf. He’ll say What. I’ll say A boy fed Ocean from his hands.

A friend I share nothing in common—except that we’ve both nearly or completely attempted to take our own young lives—texts me I miss you. In his time zone, it’s near midnight and I imagine the blue splash of his phone light creating his face in the dark. In mine, the sun has just landed on the bank like a music stand. We don’t talk much, but he is one of the few people I’ve managed to tell I love you. I send him a picture of me with one foot in the river and one palm balancing what remains of the day. I find nothing profound to say. I write back Thanks for letting me borrow the sun. / I’ll get it back to you first thing tomorrow.