My Dear,
Are you tired of this story I tell? This lamentation of mine, that I still want you to be mine — I am sick of it. All these thoughts pouring words, cascading over you from the streams of my consciousness; deflected. Useless. Same person still, same song, same me who you are tired of, who is so tired, who is nothing more than this here and now, this living from minute to minute — the wear tearing me down. Torture myself to find more words: to fill a day, fill that void, fill in the length that lies between us. Words that I exchange in our one-sided conversations, limp with lost potential. A story? How laughable! This collapsing shrine to a timeworn obsession — what a jest, what a farce. Yet I still persist in telling it; I’ll continue. And who can’t already see why? Who doesn’t already know what I still and always do?
So incredibly stupid of me, but it’s true.
Yours,
