Letter #4

I know it's a fine, fancy delusion -- can I play with it anyway? You, you lazy, sloppy thing, put us all in front of a screen today, and the dark atmospheric wiles of concentration meant that our eyes could go anywhere they warranted -- it wasn't missed. I saw the veins in your neck twitch enough to suppose myself into thinking that you fought against yourself to turn to see me as much as I did for you. And then afterwards, I walked home in the first grey day of the week, wanting Monday and the easy sense to logic and You. 

Can I hope that, if not an arrested glamour is making a fool out of your logic and authority and vows, that I interest you? I've been and gone before, maybe -- but maybe you see something more than my browned, meat shell. Maybe you see -- no you don't, kill me, or I'm ill. I'm a perfect blue mess. I want to flirt with life and adulthood -- I'm so beaten down to dust for being so young and dependant. I know I'm silly. I know that. How can I not -- every time I cry, it is out of that silliness -- but I wish (the only right humans are warranted to, the wish, the unanswered dispel) that You were just a band of man who had control of the room - and I was indisposed to this alone.