Dear light that will carry the contents of this message to a black hole someday,

Our garden is doing okay. Though I’m worried the tomatoes won’t ripen in all this rain. To the point in distant space from which this information won’t escape: I felt lonely today. Also, grateful that I have a job that pays me in in an alternative form of currency–“comb,” as in honeycomb. I am lying on my stomach writing this to you, place so far away you are not even far away, you are like a myth, always ready to explain why things happen, then vanishing into the unexplained. I would like to buy clothes that fit my body really well and then I read about garment workers mysteriously fainting except it’s no mystery, they are inhaling insecticides probably, and I know it isn’t worth it, I will just wear things I find or get for free that look a little baggy or too tight, like they weren’t made to fit flesh but a measurement of something else, maybe absence. Yesterday I planted cilantro seeds I gathered from dead cilantro and that felt good. I felt like it helped. Like we are reaching out toward you in our way. Trying to extend as far into your future as we can. I’m writing this instead of sleeping and while I have been writing the month changed. August, the month when a few very good friends were born. I love knowing my friends were born. Actually, being alive and imagining anybody being born does something to my body that feels like it must be a muscle memory of being born. Such sudden strangenesses. All these people to email suddenly smiling at me, happy just that I came in this way. It is a good feeling and I just want to say, I am sending a message of this feeling out to you where you are tonight, here and everywhere else.