You are a writer at heart, and I—I am the book that you never wanted to write. Well, I’ve got ink running through my veins as well, and when I spilled it, it wrote your name and oh!—your name was spelled like poetry! You’ve carved your words into this bookish soul too deeply. How to unwrite the memory of you? I set fire to my diaries and shred all your photographs, killing the life in me that is art, or the art in me that is life.