Violins spontaneously combust in my dreams, blowing up storefronts and hillsides. I’m on my third violin now. Awake, I listen to music until I am saturated, lacquer on thick blue nail polish. I gleam. Meanwhile, the horizon beckons. I know there is magic beyond the scrawny skyscrapers and ribbons of highway. But for now I am here, giving myself whiplash from staring at dogs and Polish grandmas and men. My shadow darkening on city sidewalks. I stay hungry, forget how to cook, how to knit delicate shawls shoved into drawers. Words pour out of me like jewels, sometimes like the plague. Basslines keep me company while I sleep. I am exhausted but alive. Across the bridge, I see a darkening fog of reality TV and domesticity so thick I will fall out of my body, no longer remember how to ache and want and feel. Most of America is ghosting as we speak. I want to keep what I’ve found. My body a map to the treasure, my mind a flashlight illuminating the way.