dear friend,

i have this dream sometimes that i concede to my stubborn and painful dedication to not listening to my friends and i visit new york with you. you used to talk at length about how much you loved the met, so naturally that’s where we went.

you point me to all your favorite works. i let you recite all you know about them, and i pretend like i’ve never heard any of this before because it’s all music to me anyways. we’re both fools for history. you pull me around and i let you; i admit that this part of the dream diverges from my memory—you’ve never been forceful. even still, this is how you have me, and frankly i don’t think being anchored to your will bothered me one bit. i don’t recall ever even giving in, yet i’ve completely sunk.

the met is just as grand and tremendous as your boundless enthusiasm for it had me...