On a bored and lonely snowy Sunday afternoon, I discovered a cache of my old love letters stuffed inside a Honeybaked Ham box in the bottom of my closet. I tossed them out on the bed and began sorting through them, arranging them by color and shape. As I wearied, I stretched out and rested in the pile of correspondence, inhaling, exhaling. The ancient paper had the feel of old linen, with a crisp quality I imagined as similar to the wrappings of a mummy. I considered fashioning a full bodysuit out of these old heartwrenching missives, but as I stitched and sewed and shaped the pattern into a vestment, a togo-like shift emerged. It was passable, although I've no skills with needle and thread.
I wore the letter-suit around the house for the afternoon, lingering by the window, watching the giant flakes of snow fall, muffling the city. About 6pm, I ran a warm bath, and stood in the middle of the tub, the water up to my calves. Then I lit my letter-dress on fire with a bright yellow disposable lighter. The flames licked up my chest, devouring the hair around my torso, and just before I fell into the water, reflected off the bathroom tiles, I saw a shadowy animated figure with a flame necklace, dozens of winged creatures intertwined with him, dancing about, then breaking free, flying away.