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The rain finally stopped. David called for you again and I almost told him. I've become so lost that the difference between the bricks stacking up and falling away has become a blur. I know you're still around, just like the rain. I can't find you. I drove for hours last night looking. But the gray box of depression has moved into my flat and already paid last months rent. Two years ago my dad would have said I was crazy. But now, he just watches the tv, condoning all the books he used to read, like a cancer.
He gave up on Easter.
You got a letter today. For some reason it reminded me of that song by Charlie, you know the one you used to change the words to. I put it with the others. The letter, not the song. I only have six weeks left until my term is up. I figure Boston is as good a place as any. Beats all the invitations to Frisco that Ash keeps sending.
I'm so tired of apologizing. Tired of wishes and headaches. I'd ask for a new breeze of something hopeful but, ' well you remember what happened the last time. I just don't have it anymore. Yesterday, when I was driving around, I saw a bumper sticker that said 'Breathing is what you make of it.' I had to pull over. You won't remember but you said that exact thing to me once. I think we were either camping or on the beach in San Martin. I could be wrong. Might have been that time we were stuck in an elevator. My jaded hope hangs on those little things. The ones that make you believe in coincidences. I know you're still out there.
It started raining again.