I like my first coffee in the morning. I like missing friends. When I lay on top of my dog, I love the satisfied growling noise she makes, air pushing through her mouth, her nose. I like a movie that makes me cry. I like silence. I like sticking my face up and into a hot shower, battered by the water, flesh red with the heat. I like the morning light angled and white on my couch. I like going to sleep listening to the rain. I like the company of misery but only when misery is funny. I like a book that takes me with it. I like watching my dog sleep. I like having nightmares. I love my capacity to scare myself. I like the dusty smell of the street after the rain. I like the smell of gasoline. I like getting letters from lost friends. I like the smell of oil paints. I like dandelions. I like doing dishes, the water warm and soapy on my hands, the act of organizing, cleaning, satisfying me. I like the sound of water. I like the long serene shadows of early morning. I like rereading a book I haven't read since I was a teenager. I like the smell of old paper. I like the smell of dryer exhaust.