Dear Clive,
I'm writing to tell you that all memory is fiction. It is sensation abstracted by language and sequence. All physical evidence falls under causality which only functions when dissected from total reality. None of it actually exists. There is only this moment passing. That being said the memory of you leaves me wanting, the fiction stronger than the reality of this moment. I hold onto those instances when... The fiction languishing, evolving with time or staying frozen while your reality shifts away from those thoughts, away from me. I don't think I can bare it any longer. Under it all, under all of the junk and miscommunication those tender feelings still live. Gentle phantoms who's hands weaken the muscle of my heart with each touch. You should know this Clive, I think you should know this. I am stoic in the face of everything but this.
Sincerely,
Oliver
