I started writing yet ANOTHER letter to you — only much more in-depth, heart-felt, and with greater passion — and halfway through I started feeling stupid for putting such repetitive thoughts on the page. These words aren’t going to bring you back. They aren’t going to make me less lonely. They are mere thoughts on a white backdrop; unreturned dreams and desires that elicit nothing more than deepened sorrow at the sight of this burned bridge lying charred and useless at the bottom of a chasm. I feel so silly for still wanting you in such a passionate and persistent way, even after all this time, and even after the very clear, very broad and defined lines you drew. What’s wrong with me?