Once upon a time a rather unmotivated boy thought he loved a girl. In many ways they were a perfect match, like horses. Both had strong white teeth that snapped against the wind; they were exactly of an age; she was chestnut and he was coffee-colored. A fine pair. This was known because it was told to them.

He made French-press coffee from exotic, candy-flavored beans until she learned to like it - with cream and sugar still, of course, a heaping tablespoon of sugar always. She would often bring him wine and sometimes, after it was only two blood-red puddles stickying up his plastic cups, she would crack open lined pages or her laptop and read a weave of words across his little living room. They would go from couch to corner, cling onto his walls and drown her small voice, make her make it big. Proud. She had dreams so oversize that sometimes they pushed the corners of his roof up, anxious to see what air became outside of drywall tupperware, sealed storage units humans used to grow old in, falsely preserved, shut out from the thrill of open, limitless, all directions. Her curious dreams didn't understand them, with their houses and their legs.

There are many stories, children, her dreams would say, trying to send their whispers through plaster cracks and on to the pinprick stars. This is only one. And if you are careful, keep your eyes open, you can quietly cull a block from each of them. Sew small bits into bigger ones. Humans make wonderful patterns. When it's big enough, with all its pieces, it will keep you warm.

lil