Dear Writer,

My fingers ache, my palms are stained with ink, memories of google drive and zip folders haunt me, and I feel a crazy sense of safety, as if no one is watching.

I know you need not care about my feelings--I have not thought much about yours in the past. 

And I know you disagree and think my way is crazy, but I have to admit: you knew. 

Can we play the empathy game? You will likely say I am responsible for our rifts, and I will likely say you are right. In a way, I am trying to make up for it, trying to say you are magic. I am trying to say, I have always seen you. 

All I know is meander, mumble, grunt, squeal, gasp, scream, laugh, try, and voila, my words, Calibri and spellchecked, appear. W...

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