sleeping in a library

(the feeling of writing a book)

When I was fifteen years old, I flew alone for the first time—to Wisconsin, where I spent the summer with my aunt and her small twins. They took me to a drive-in movie and we watched The Lion King, my cousins perched atop the car as Simba sang. I wrote down everything I saw and felt in gossamer-thin blue aerogrammes and sent them to my best friend at ho…