dear me,
i think i could make it with you. make sure to wear that top hat your grandpa was wearing in that picture in the summer. people don't wear enough top hats. promise me that you will always laugh at me when i trip and fall and you will paint my portrait with that set of watercolours in your attic. you know the ones. i want you to write a letter to me dated 20 years in the future. i want to see how much i'll change. and i hope you make spelling mistakes. let's drive to san fransisco and pretend its still the place it was. let's drive to vegas and sit in at a cathedral all day and watch people get married. let's sit in the desert until we feel like we could die from heat. then we can stuff our faces with slurpies and pee on the side of the highway. we could drop acid and work at a diner for a couple of months. to pay the bills we don't have. we could learn how to drive a truck and get in on the secret trucker scene that i am sure exists. we should write novels and smoke cigars and be the bums that everyone dreams they could be. maybe not everyone, but people like you and me. we could hang out at laundromats watching people fold their clothes. we'd take polaroid pictures of the spinning loads. and leave them there so that people can see what they were missing while they were off having coffee and running errands.

let's see what people miss. and let's be naive enough to think that no one's ever done the things we'll do or say the things we'll say. im losing that naivety you see, and i want it back.