The map of my daydream is a thin sliver of grey, shimmer sheening in the sunlight. It is a thick rind, ripe with possibility. It dances like the sparkles in the center. It is a tall, still aspen. And the particular grey blue of the winter sky. It is the silhouette of the orange chair, and the messy hair bun of my love, smoking his joint. It is the quietness of the morning. It is the hot bitterness of my green tea. It is the paper weight, and the plastic cover crinkle of my library book – Seven Thousand Ways to Listen. It is the joy of knowing that everything is going to work out, according to plan. (Whatever that is.) Tickety Boo of the Universe. The more I let go, the more it works out, defying reason. The beauty of the daydream is – it is not practical, it is not reasoned. And it is all the better for that. It is the sound of the piano – resonant, insistent, probing, melodic. It is the sound of my laughter. The map...