Ciarra: Dear.

With an unreliable pace a girl walks steadily straight. Her hands are in her pockets, as evidenced by the occasional bulge of balled fists under denim. The ground beneath her feet is broken and not by her, but she likes to stamp as she charges along as if she were to blame. The cause rather than effect. She occupies her body in ways like this one and leaves it for her thoughts to hold her afloat. They sometimes look like this:

"It is ridiculous and relentless, the voice of their truth! How can it be that they can be believed? Where is the touch so soft on skin? Where, the breath, wholeheartedly inhaled? Why not? And why not admit content to imploring hands and eyes, when making believe in a search of any kind? How precious that each of us are here! We need no acknowledgment at all, nor must we always even consider one another. There is no such call for precaution! We're here anyway, all the time. And every step is mine, like the lines I refuse to walk--and trace--and say--and cross. This is true too, I'd like to say to them."

Mitch: "Surely i don't give a shit." (Err--on a bout of superfluous curses just recently...)

There's a house at the top of the ridge beyond my balcony that I find hard to believe in.‭ ‬It sits in a field of fawning grasses in gold,‭ ‬precisely the shade of its walls,‭ ‬and it is flanked on three sides by sentinel evergreens leaving only the view that I have.‭ ‬It is a self-congratulating house.

Besides that, I'm good. My life follows sequential rules and I like/appreciate expecting some kind of control in its course. I am male, and my favorite food is dried pears (my mouth waters and everything!). The size of my ears appears to be too large to passers-by, (perhaps too round, so near my face?) but in fact they are proportionately correct. I suspect that the regularity of this mistake points to the downfall of the brunt theory of evolution, grossly failing as it does to account for the faulty connection of human sight and its tendency to encourage false beliefs in our own inherent abilities, such as basic mechanical reasoning. I believe that my own excessive exaggeration is funny as fuck, falsely no doubt. My name is Mitch, and I do not surf.

For the past year I have dreamed about you every night. I haven't the foggiest sense of why this is. I'm beginning to miss my previous wet dreams of the dewy-eyed sprite that ignores me with lustful desperation during mid-shift at the bar; it is no longer her in the extravagantly-thrown, shabby galas of my sub-conscious, but you.

Actually, I don't mind as much as is reasonable. My eyes accidentally close at some point and the rest of the night is yours. Like the way my dog doesn't register eye contact when it is made through a mirror. You're here, always walking somewhere--hurrying? And it's as if I know you completely, with your thoughts running off in our head. I don't believe that I have a say in what happens to us, I'm stowed-away somehow, a voyeuristic paraplegic. It's uncanny--and it doesn't only sound creepy, rest assured. I wonder if you know that I'm there with you?

I fell out of bed this morning.‭ (“‬Ouch‭!...G‬od forsaken.‭”) ‬Again.‭ ‬It's a mad thing,‭ ‬this bewildered occupancy you've taken up in my head.‭ ‬What if you knew me‭? ‬What would your opinion look like‭?