I don't know anything

Letter 2

I do remember this one, it was more recent. Here it is:

Dear Sally,

But isn’t that fake already?

“Dearest brother,” / “My dear sister,” how so unlike us could you get?

Instead of some rumpled notecard or whatever, maybe pretend I wrote this next bit on a scrap of old screenplay or treasure map, or something cool like that:

I don’t want our relationship to be: I move away; time happens; there’s people, and weirdness, and life; and then one day we see each other when we’re old, and say, “Oh yeah, we used to be kids together, eh? I think I remember that.”

It’s a shame when so much seems to work together to make people slip apart.

I still write to H.O. Christianson sometimes.

But I haven’t even written to Mangelo in months, I just realized.

I have folders filled with whole books’ worth of these pretend letters. I wish you could know.

Now, more than anything, feels like the time I have to change. Time to get ready.

I can’t keep watching the same things happen.

Seriously, though, enough about me.