See, somewhere around now last year I balked and balked, or said I did, but then moved through the year and arrived here, in this now, where I would have woken a year ago and written the dreams of last night, the Nicaraguan fruits in crates teeming with ruler-sized metallic green centipedes, would have implicated myself in some unique and meaningful psychosis, the case study for the day--bug dreams again--and for that reason alone would have found myself interesting enough to write the evocative version of it here for both of us, so that I would have a record of what I saw and so that you might have another image of terror in beauty, or another of the dream sinking its real teeth into my misty wake--into my laughable ability to stay awake--because I am afraid of the dream, enamored too, nothing's changed, except that I think now I'm more inclined to believe I not only know enough to know the difference but also: there is one: so now, in this now, the voice is all wrong, all mush and slop, all you don't want to listen in on this because it's very much a love letter plagued by the many cliches of the love letter that I canforthetimebeing do little to work against until I've said enough, that again? but I thought? but, no, we aren't past this now, you and I, for I believe you exist and I believe your existence is good, I almost always have, except when the evidence said you never really know a person, which is all the time, thanks to evidence, and then I figured it was okay to figure you out like a book that yields up difficult readings every day depending on my mood, thanks to moods, and because you choose to write books--or I assume you have no choice but to write books--there is evidence again that there is nothing more to go on, for without the third (and the third is the arrival of the future if what I've been getting at is present and past) my love for you is a dream, but if what I believe is our future arrives: you arrive too:
***
