I'm staring at your words and absorbing them. I've taken them. I've swallowed them, but certainly not whole. Nobody can have all of your words, because I'm sure you're still thinking them. They just haven't made it to a piece of paper (or electronic confessional box) yet. And we can pretend to know one another, and I wonder how good or bad I am at pretending. I'm an awful liar, but wish I had time to try out for the spring production. Not because a play sounds terribly exciting, but just because I wonder what I can do. Do you ever wonder what you can do, where on the line of personal reality subjectivity becomes objectivity? I suppose it doesn't. So the me I know and the me you know--maybe they wouldn't even be friends. I wish I had your words in my hand. Not in my pocket, because they'd fall forgotten like all my lost dollars. Not in my mind, because there's too much swimming about (or maybe not enough) and your words will just drown one way or the other. Please place them in my hand, but not in the palm. Lay letters that shy away from non-ironic alliteration onto my fingertips. Symbols. I see you, but you're just symbolic of a friend I'd like to know. I'm going to stop staring at your words now.