Tell me something I don’t know. Everyone who holds the line is not brave, and everyone who gazes over channels is not a dreamer. And I am neither. I am eating paper in the back of a dark cab and filing through phonemes. The girl in my past who slept near a mummy was another version of me. The boy in your past who shot a squirrel in the gut was another version of you. The problem is that the girl woke up without prompting, and the boy cried instead of laughed. When I give the cab driver my cash, he does not notice the bite out of the corner of that 5, the ink smudges under my nose. I guess I didn’t warn you it was monsoon season. I guess I figured you could tell by the rain.