Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing you from inside a nightmare. Or what most people would call a nightmare, anyway. It's very dull, if you ask me. A bristly forest creature hulking through the kitchen. A cat spirit attacking my ankles one second and then butting my thigh with its head the next. I don't even like cats. One time, someone said she thought I was a cat person and I got so offended I almost hung up.

(For the record, I love dogs. Cats are not dogs. These are the facts.)

Now a carnivorous plant is looming over my head, watching me write this postcard. Why bother with all the theatrics? At the end of this dream, I'll still be in bed. My girlfriend will still be able to listen to my heartbeat by putting her head on my chest. When we wake up, we'll make tea and open the curtains, and I'll forget I ever wrote this postcard.

That is, until you write back. Can you write back? Will you even receive this? Who can say.

Anyway, goodnight, Wigleaf.

Sweet dreams,
Ruth