The thick crust of sleep cracks, painfully waking me. I was dreaming of my ex-best friend. She has amazing legs, I never told her. I keep secrets— dozens of them— in envelopes ready to mail. All I need is a stamp for a direct line to god. Though I have very little to do with god, I find mailing letters addressed: god// heaven// the universe, as close as I will get.
Knowing that the post-office has sworn an oath to deliver, I wonder: are my letters sleeping with christmas lists? This stems from a desire to relieve my mind yet maintain anonymity. Why burden a friend or lover, when for $.39 I can talk to god? The letters never come back, I use a fake address.
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