May 18, 2009.
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Had some contact with you today, but didn't hear your voice. We sent messages back and forth about my ticket and tried to reach a positive conclusion for us both. It felt good, being a team with you again, though I worry I might have made it too stressful for you. You're undoubtedly confused, and I'm clinging to the past like a boy to his mother's leg on the first day of school.
I smoked too much today. I need to start cutting down again.
Who am I trying to impress with this drivel? It's not like you'd ever read this if I sent it, and that's the whole IDEA. I need to write this stuff for me, but here I am writing it for you. I'm sure that says something about my condition. That I just can't let you go. I'm scared that nothing will ever be as good again.
I'm sure that fear recedes, though. Everything seems to recede.
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