Dear Wigleaf,

Tonight the sky in Brooklyn is a rotten melon. On the subject of mail: A man recently sent me a symphony. Symphonies should come on scrolls, probably, hand-delivered by a child in a tiny velvet suit, but this one came by email. On the subject of stories: There's a symphony in my story, too. It happened to me just the way I wrote it: Years ago, another guy told me he would write a symphony for me, or at least instruct others to do so. And I thought it meant he loved me, but really it was just his quiet way of telling me that someone else was going to have to do the heavy lifting. We put such fragments into our stories to make them both more and less true. It works. Try it. Now I wonder if, by writing it down, I brought this new symphony into being. On the subject of symphonies: This letter is loud with them. On the subject of love: Music only sounds like love. I'm not sure any of us can truly love anyone. Which brings me to my question.

All my love, I swear it, it's yours -

m.






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Read MN's "In Which No One Falls in or out of Love."

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