Dear Wigleaf,

I write to you from a bus, the in between of places, on the final day of my 27th year, the in between of years. (Several times now I have fallen into the space between the bed and the wall. I have slid in and allowed myself to slide and then stayed until pulled, or until my bones are pressed to unfold.) My arm is pressing a little against the person sitting next to me. It's strange to think about this casual touching that may occur between strangers throughout the day, no matter how compact I make myself, no matter what I try to save. Those I love tend to be so far away that they go untouched by me for weeks or months or even years. And yet this stranger receives the pressure of my elbow against her side for the duration of a four hour drive. I ask her to receive it on your behalf, and I hope you feel it if you want it, mediated though it is.


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Read ST's "Aviation."

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