In bizarro Portland, your mother is sitting at a tiny table eating a bowl of peas. The dog is barking because you smell like a gorilla. A man asked if he could touch your mysterious hair. A woman with a green mohawk is having a birthday party and I am in no way invited. She stands on her chair and calls me babycakes. The sea is crashing against the rocks in front of the lighthouse. It’s not easy to find magic in pairs. Now I’m going to go wake up in Paris.