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I was writing the date out of habit when I mistakenly wrote "seventeenth of Farvardin"—you can see the scratch on my handwriting, but it's not a problem. Last night, I dreamt of you, which was the fourth time, though last night I dreamt within a dream. I rolled out of one dream and into another. In the first, with an unwarranted pride—like the pride of a unique creation—you were giving your travel speeches. I, sitting in the corner of your sleep, reached out for you and the wing of the airplane, which I said was too far to reach, and everything became a shadow of Hitchcock’s works—hope you've seen his films, I wish that if you haven’t, we could watch one together one day. Then, I crawled from under the shadow to the second dream where you sat alone in a corner, holding your two knees and from the windows of your eyes, rain poured. Surely, it is a good omen. I wanted to lift your hands from your face, but behind you, in a multicolored stable of your horses and vinegars, they stood like silent fans, and in the dream, I was afraid of them. You were troubled by a thought that was tied to your childhood. You shrank down, and I thought, "This child must be comforted." I woke up to find my hands clenched into fists. When I opened them, your tears had dampened the lines of my palms.

We have reached the eighteenth of Ordibehesht, twelve minutes past three... it’s now three a.m. I think, even if you were the Prophet of God, you shouldn’t have been this distant. I’m finishing Abbas Maroufi’s Symphony of the Dead and am reaching the part where leprosy comes. While reading the book, my patience and strength break, and my thoughts leap from Ardabil and Shorabi to today: “Do I have leprosy? Why don’t you take me to your farm and share a cup of tea with me?” I wish, just once, I could plant a Kash tree! I wish you would fall asleep within a dream and see me in your sleep, and when you wake, your palms would turn the same auburn color as my soft hair! I wish I were a tree in your farm, spinning around without expecting anything from you.

This notebook is almost finished, and I’ve been watching you all these days and nights, without your permission, from the tiles on your stairs, from the sturdy wood of your house, your gaze, like a spirit. I think you understood. I sent countless kisses your way. My dear Mazdak, I’m referring to when you showed me a photo of your house and asked where the carpet was placed, and then, with so much joy, you held the video of your home before my eyes. I was standing on tiptoes outside your car, excitedly watching your phone and your beautiful home video.

I wish I could record the sound of the elephants’ trumpet as they pass over my chest in the morning and send it to you. I wish I could weigh their pressure and show it to you so you would know the discomfort of my writing hand, how my heart is broken. How much crime is there in drinking a cup of tea? It’s the story of a heart that feels trapped when its owner is about to wake up from a deep slumber.