A few nights ago I dreamed of puzzle pieces. And not just any ones: these puzzle pieces, which I put together on Sunday in one long rush with my partner and our friend Natalie. It was a lovely afternoon of of cheese, crackers, and sliding the colors around. Feeling how they clicked together, how they didn’t. Not here a puzzle piece says. And then eventually it chuckles yep.
                Thinking about that dream, I’ve been sitting with how my mind fills up with what I turn my eyes and ears and hands to. I’m the kind of TV watcher who will be washing dishes, sometimes years after seeing a story, and find myself repeating lines I remember and lines I could imagine characters saying, instead, if the story went a different way. Do you do that? It’s not a habit I talk about much—just like the puzzle piece dreams aren’t something I talk about much—and there it is. Like I’m a glass brimful of what I’ve been drinking. Bump into me and out splashes mixings from what’s inside.