Dear Diaspora, last night, I had the American dream.
In the dream, I had an indoor pool.
In the dream, I walked my dead dog with a diamond leash.
I ate a greasy burger with my perfect hands.
I had the most beautiful sex.
My skin was smooth, alabaster as the moon.
In the morning, everything had changed.
There was no pool, only twine for drying clothes.
The dead remained dead.
My perfect hands held nothing.
Nothing was better.