All of this is nothing. I write to you and write to you. Writing to no one. Letters floating through periphery, going nowhere. They’ll never touch you; I don’t touch you anymore. You don’t feel me, don’t see me, don’t know me — can’t remember, don’t care to. And I don’t blame you. But I still need you like the dying, love you like the dead. Know that holding on is futile, but what else is left? Oh what a pathetic mess I have made of myself.