at last I finished the letter, which I started writing on the day you left. it’s four pages long and it’s not really a letter, but I needed to write it. now that it’s finished, it doesn’t make me feel any better. all I do is return to it and read it over and over. I haven’t talked to anyone for days. I have only been writing. as soon as you left I returned to writing. thousands of words in a single night. for an entire week. on wednesday I went out, got a little intoxicated, sent emails to the australian. instead of you. now he’s doing the same. it’s how we are. I wish I could write more about it. I wish I felt confident enough to write to you. send you everything that I have been hiding on my disc. one of the reasons I didn’t bring my laptop over to your place was the fear that you would somehow find everything. don’t hate me for this. I’m still working on my insecurities.
another sleepless night in front of me. it’s almost two in the morning. the city is too loud. every single bus that passes down on the street, twenty eight stores below me, I hear it as if it is in the middle of our living room. I can hear the guys unloading fruit at the fruit market less than a block away. every night is the same. nights like these when I cannot sleep I wish I was out there somewhere. in the middle of the red district, talking to strangers, taking everything this city has to offer. nights like these are my least favorite because I can’t sleep and then I can’t wake up in the morning. and it’s a circle and it goes on and on.
you feel so distant right now, I keep forgetting we still live in the same time zone.