I'm writing these letters in dead languages, forgotten words going through the phases of creationism, from first to finish. I can only imagine how hard it was for you to be born, whirling limbs going every which way as if you were born to multitask, to flit from one thought to the next.

Maybe I'm writing these letters so you won't read them, because I'm finally at a point where everything makes too little sense for me to disagree. I just want you to know that I'm still here, I'm still full of breath and living. Don't bury me standing or I'll die on my knees. I just want you to know that it's harder for me to not know than it is for me to bare the wound itself.