i had a dream about joanna newsom.
she gave me her autograph and wrote me sweet letters signed with x's and o's.
later, when i was home again, there were two tornadoes in the desolate distance. lurking toward me. the sky and the storm where in black and white like an old film from the 40s. everything else was normal--but dimly lit and glazed in a deep yellow hue. all i did, all i could think to do, was hurriedly fold up the autograph and letters and put them deep within my pockets. i took some photographs of the storm, and went to sleep knowing that when they found me battered and dead, they'd find her too. then all the obituaries would write about how i loved her too much, a "bedraggled ghost of a sonnet."