All these little signs, these little things that I mistake as meaningful — I’ll weasel meaning into anything, if you let me. And now I cannot tell if you are interested, curious, or just kind. But why would you be, when there is so much more to your life? And what do I have to show for myself besides my name and half a brain? No morals, clearly. Precariously bordering on sane. Yet you want to know, always, more. You try to uncover my secrets, unlock my meaning. And it’s little things like these that have got me thinking of you differently — dangerously.