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Hey. I know it’s been a while since I’ve talked to you. My mind has been… strange, lately. I can’t quite understand the world. Or maybe it doesn’t want to understand me. I’m afraid I’ll drift off entirely one day. Maybe I’d be happier that way. I’m trying to concentrate on writing, now, but my hands are shaky and I keep spilling the ink. I’m sorry about the stains. Please don’t be mad. I’m trying to hold still, I really am. We’re losing the war. And I know you’d be utterly livid if you were here. But I’m too tired anymore. I just want to see you one more time, so that I can die in peace. I’d even settle just for the sound of your voice. Or your words dark on pale parchment. Anything- anything to prove that I’m not alone. I’ve been working really hard. You’d be proud. Or maybe you’d admonish me for overworking myself; I can never tell with you. Your moods change so quickly. It’s exhilarating, but it also hurts, sometimes- sorry. I didn’t mean to complain. Remember what you said to me? That love is for everyone but the wretched creatures we are? I didn’t believe you at the time, but now I think you’re right. You were right about so many things. Except one; you said that I’d rule the world. That I would be just fine without you. You lied. I don’t rule the world, and I’m alone, and I’m so hungry and tired and- sorry. I’m complaining again. I know those problems are silly. They would be fixed if I just ate and slept and figured something out like I always used to do. But I can’t bring myself to do any of those things anymore. My limbs are of lead, my skin pale stone, and my eyes are cracked diamonds. You always did like poetry. But you were better at it than I. You would create art, and I would fix your grammar. It seems so superfluous of me now. I feel old. My face is cracking. I’m decomposing, roses growing in my corpse. It’s agony; every moment without you, every coughing breath I take, is agony. I guess I don’t have much to say other than complaining. The only other thing would be talking about the state of the war, and I don’t think I could talk about that without throwing myself on my knife. It’s bad. Really bad. I failed you, and I’ll take any punishment you throw at me; hell, I’ll punish myself if you want. I already have. It’s only a temporary release, but it’s become more of an addiction than anything else. I hate it. I wish you’d pin me down and laugh in my ear and tell me it’s alright in that crass, mocking way of yours. But I failed in bringing you back, so I suppose I don’t deserve such things. I- I think they’ve found me. I think they’re going to kill me. But I- I lied, I don’t want to die- I’m afraid of the endless Void- please, please don’t let me die I’m scared I love you I-
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