Dear friend

Thank you, I’d say, for your last letter. I’m really glad for you and the things you have achieved. From your tone I understand that you are happy with everything at the moment, your new apartment, your new friend, she seems nice from what you’ve told me. I’ve been looking at that picture again, for hours on end; it’s the one on the white boat, with your sister and your mother, and the bluest ocean I have ever set my eyes on. I do miss the old times. Do you remember those grapes? We used to eat them in the evening, when the sun was just good. I know you’ll keep telling yourself that this can’t be, that this is just a text, and it has nothing to do with real life. Well, if you are reading this then know that I do love you, that this text is me, forced, shriveled into words as I am right now, but this is really me, trying to fit this page just like I try to fit a category others have made for me. So this letter must have a degree of immediacy so that when you read it you’ll feel like I’m standing right beside you and you’re trying to keep up with my hand, or I’m trying to keep up with your moving eyes. So that we’ll meet in this fatigue of language that gets me every time I try to write something for you. Really, you’re the only person I’m writing for. Sometimes I fear there’s nobody else out there and that I need to make you up out of the experiences I never had. Then I’ll have to make you out of the cup of coffee I had in the morning, and the short chats I have with my hairdresser, and those faces of those students and those people I see drowned into their thoughts, books, cups, hands held together. You’ll turn out to be many things when you’re actually one and you wear your cape with dignity. You know, that cape made out of the night and a garbage can, and the no-smoking sign. You look like a pineapple in it.
 
You’ve asked me about the angels and the saints. They’re really beautiful; otherwise I wouldn’t consider them angels and saints. One of them has these white wings, and (s)he sells flowers. I see him/her almost every morning. Then there’s the saint I don’t really know because I haven’t really seen him/her, only his/her shoes lined up, drying in the sun.
 
Things are good here, I’m happy, but you probably know that. I’m searching for new ways of telling you that I’m actually happy. So you need to be happy too. You must be. I refuse to think otherwise. You must be patient, you must love, and care, and do, and pray, because people will want you and you’ll live out of that want, and you’ll want them. You are born out of others’ wishes like you were born out of mine.
 

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