We share a life. We both booked the same clown instead of sharpening the knife— how profound. When I sent you my manifesto on circus etiquette, you debated it, and we both shared words we regret. It was never right to laugh at the tightrope walker. You still disagree? Fine— but I know you choose absurdity over Betty Crocker. Why haven’t you taken down your Christmas lights? Too goddamn bright. Santa Claus is going to be blinded and smash through the roof. Perhaps then he will retire without needing proof he mishandled labor— and go back to being a sailor. The South African ivory trade is still prominent. The elephants are going to get angry and start migrating to the United States. Do you think the commander-in-chief will let them be? Or is it off to El Salvador without debate? Anyway— I think you said it was getting late. Yeah, I agree, but someone keeps painting patterns on my sheets, things I cannot believe. Words of tyrant, I say. I’ll just sleep down by the creek where we skipped rocks until the water could speak. It spoke of our rock-skipping assault. Technically, it was then that we got stoned. Call it karma, but we didn’t deserve to be alone. Goodnight. Let the bedbugs pray in your ears so the demons can’t interrupt your nightmares.