I’m working on being alone today. It’s the new year. I start with drunk dreams and then texts to Diana about carrying our homes with us. I think about who I want to write letters to: Joe, Katherine, Mary. It comforts me to write letters: they remind me that there is someone listening on the other end. Likewise, I have received writing that felt made for me. People who are dead want to talk to me. I’m writing; I invite you to my life.