Love is like the wind which bends reflections in the Glass

Dear Hugo,
The different 'me's that exist weave in and out like traffic: each different in temperament, motivation, timbre, pride, courage, fear and emotion. Each is no less me than the next. They weave and overlap like close but dissonant versions of the same notes. They play drinking games in the dive-apartment in my brain. they do not value sleep and chase each other in the hall and through the the fragile winter trees. which is to say, the silence comes in waves.

I know that all men and women face themselves- and that most say 'oh' and work around the voices. But i have fought too long toward the 'real' that i cannot, now, push it down and away. I will not cover it with the rug of drunkenness or distract myself with, well. . . you know- the wind which bends reflections in the glass. I hope you welcome time alone- it will not come every day-

in the words of Jean-Paul Sartre: "the world is an airport, in which i am unattended luggage."

with love,
collin in the evening

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