Dear Wigleaf,

All day, I do not eat. Then I wake in the night ravenous. In the kitchen in the dark, I eat peanut butter with siracha. Rye crisps and olives and yogurt. I eat jelly straight from the jar. A few weeks ago, I moved from Utah to California. Now, I'm on Guerrero and Cesar Chavez in an apartment alone. He is in Spain. He is rock climbing. He is drinking wine with a Spanish woman at a café. I want to drink wine with a Spanish woman at a café. If I'm being honest, I want bourbon most of all. But I do the right thing and buy a pack of cigarettes. I do the right thing and buy a bouquet of mums for more money than anyone ought to pay for mums. But they brighten the room right up, and for a moment—afternoon light streaming in through the large bay windows, flowers on the coffee table purple and green—I feel almost like I live here. Almost like I am living inside my life and not just watching it like it's some strange television show. Wigleaf, yesterday I watched over six hours of television. I don't even like television. I don't even smoke cigarettes, but I carry the pack with me like a talisman. For your heart, my friend suggests.

Wigleaf, what I'm trying to say is that years ago, when I was Spain, I smoked the damn cigarettes and needed no talisman.

Yours,

AFB