Today… (no, “today” is merely a linear trap; you would say: “time is a disease of verbs, write without an introduction”).
So. The lamp snatches only the edge of the table from the dark, and the whiteness of the paper cuts my eyes with its sterility. I write: “I miss your advice.” (I see you smiling, squinting your left eye: “It’s not advice you miss, but a mirror in which you don’t look foolish”).
Fine. Let it be.
My life right now is a scattered set of letters, a canonical chaos, from which it is impossible to assemble even a single sentence that wouldn’t seem to me a lie too complicated. I stop the pen. Here you should intervene, like a master of stoic calm: “Take a pause. Rhythm is more important than content. Breathe.”
I breathe. But in my lungs – the dust of your unsent letters.
“The world has become…” (I see you reaching for my hand to cross out this word). The world has remained the same. It’s just that now there is no one in it to place punctuation marks where I am suffocating.
I will burn this sheet, for it is only our shared draft. You have already read it through my pupils, made your invisible edits with the red ink of irony. The emptiness of the paper is but an illusion. The true text pulses in the silence we have just edited so masterfully.