i couldn’t sleep; so i dreamt that i sent you a postcard of a river, a water threading through the cloth of two continents, this postcard smells like mangos and cut apples since I like to eat while writing, i’m wondering if these sharpie strokes know that your name popped up when i took a polaroid of graffiti outside a museum, and I don’t know if I have enough room in the back to write about the music I heard or the places I visited, I just want to etch in what it means to travel with no real destination except for the direction your black ink pulls me to, or to not have a return address; just this river I’m following to the beach between this dream and the ocean.