The phone is predictably quiet. I leave dozens of imaginary messages scattered a little bit of everywhere. I don't know how many end up in the garbage. I walk across a wall on hands and toes in scorching California heat. I burn my fingers on concrete and unflagging pride. I miss my old visits to heaven. The divinity of angelic misery has gone absentee. There is no substitution.

11:01 a.m. - 2017-07-10