Today I can find no coherency, no meaning in anything. You are a puzzle, the words a riddle, but pieces are missing and the answers only bring more riddles, and I cannot make rhymes out of riddles. At the end of each new sentence I find myself back at the beginning — questioning, wondering, doubting its authenticity. This is, perhaps, a reflection of my inner state… but even with this thought, I am not sure where I’m going. Because I am not sure where we are going. Because I am not even sure if there is a “we.” Or if it has always been just you, just me — going nowhere, living separately. If all I thought was real, was only real to me… I’m really not sure where I am going, if you’re not with me.