4:48 a.m.

In the dream, I am trying to get an oil change from this man in a suburban neighborhood, but I keep driving from house to house. Everything feels weird and eerie and not right. It’s almost a nightmare, but not a nightmare.

It’s early enough for a fire and to cook the frozen quiche.

If you don’t have intergenerational friendships, are you even living?

He tells me I need to bring back some joy. He’s not wrong.

All the tile cutting but no music. Maybe someone complained about the country music.

I can’t wait for her to be free.

It’s because I can see it, and they can’t. And maybe they won’t. Not until they’re long gone, and they’ve lived more life and can place these moments into context.

He keeps trying to convince me that he can drive just fine with only one hand on the wheel.

I know myself.