How dare you be so blind? How dare you come to my place of catharsis and tell me to stop? How dare you assume that these are clandestine letters when really it is just a rehashing of memory out into the void. These are not important thoughts, they are self indulgent words about everything, everyone. How dare you assume to know anything about me.
We love authors for what they write. We love those words and their capacity to be relevant to our hearts and to our lives. Whether those words are true, are written specifically for us, or jotted down without feeling, it does not matter. We get wrapped up in the words.
He was words on a screen, a conduit which I used to help process my walk in life. And I was nothing more than a blank wall to put them on.
Nothing more.
There's nothing more.

















