this is just to say that i cannot say what i want to say to the people i want to talk to.
because when i mean what i say, and say what i mean,
i somehow get it incredibly wrong.
you are a surrogate, an ersatz, a lame representation for the people i
am afraid to talk to
either because I think too much, or too little of them.
i wish you were
alive. but then again,
no, i do not. were
you alive, i would not talk to you, and thus this txt
would not exist, and neither you nor me
would know anything of what is said here.
my precious diary,
none of us exists: you are not
paper, and i’m not a writer, so
we do belong together –
the non-existent text upon immaterial medium,
i hope you do forgive.