(Somebody asked me, "Up to what account do you intend to continue this?" In fact, I fear that this would ever cease. If I stop, that means I have exhausted all that there is to be recounted. I will struggle to launch forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.)


*****

I may have lied about who I am, but I have always been truthful about how I felt. After all, it was he who said that love has no simulations. Despite the lies, my love, I believe has no illusions.

"What I like most about you today," he told me once, "is that you did not run away." Touche. It was so like me to stick around even when he was being his most difficult. When he wrote me a letter, it had not been actually intended to state something. It was sort of a pre-warning to gauge how far my endurance would go. Understanding the letter itself required patience. To fail before such text was to fail before the persona who had written it. The intention of the text was apart from its meaning. The intention was primary; its meaning, secondary.