& the road looks so distant, like this is all a funhouse mirror, & I barely have any control, or maybe I have only the illusion of control, or maybe not even that. What does it mean to see the future distorted in such a way that it is barely recognizable as the future. It’s Easter & the president posted the word fuckin’ on the internet, apostrophe & all. My son woke up at 4 a.m. & only went back to sleep when we bribed him with the idea of going to the zoo, where he’ll tell the giraffes all his secrets. I want to make sense of everything—the concept of a day beginning & ending in a way that is ordered, if not orderly—but that’s not how it goes. I was driving around, in the front seat, listening to some Syd Barrett, & I glanced into the rearview mirror, which reflected the little mirror I use to check on my son, & the way the mirrors bounced off each other—it let me pretend, for a moment, I was inside that dream again, where I’m driving from the backseat, where the road looks so distant, like this is all.