I meant to tell you this yesterday, but in my dream two nights ago I committed suicide, unsuccessfully. I know we're really supposed to die when we die in dreams, but since I jumped off a zeppelin (can we agree to not care about spelling here?) fell through the sky and landed on the roof of a hotel, dazed but ok, unsure how to tell people I'd failed at dying.
I suppose it's a metaphor for fears of failure, or falling, but I woke up in a really good mood.
Every time I see two pigeons (not having sex) on the stoop outside my window I think of us.
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