I think dreams have a weird way of manifesting into the very fabric of our being, breathing, suffering selves. last night I dreamt of a room without walls and woke up in a sweat because that one night in september you said love for you is always a conversation for enclosed spaces until one day there was room for someone, and then another, and another, and another. to have the freedom to no longer be forsaken and drowning in an inexplicable pool of “maybe if I wasn’t like this things would be different.” and while I am wholly aware of the anarchist in me, can you imagine your identity being constraint within the palm of a tightly wound fist that wants nothing more than to hold something? O’Hara said it best; “It’s a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world” but yet if everyone understood a summer day would be longer than a day. longer than a month. to love and f — and see how it is beautiful if karim and neha do it but also karim and talha and neha and vaneeze and maybe all four and maybe none. to love and f — and accept and trust that the world can be so unbelievably beautiful if you love your son for the way he loves another’s