The mail comes, it always comes and you know this and begin to want it. You write letters to ever girl you ever known. You construct a constitution of where you began and where you see it all ending… you see for the first time and end and a beginning.
You write and perhaps read books. And time is so, so long, seconds take minutes and hours take days and days take months and years are things that stories are made of.
You write stories to all your friends, first in mail then reading books you rewrite them all and re-tell them how a story should go,
Keep collecting that mail call.
She will write back and you will see her lipstick and a photo of your friends. There is a smell in all that and when you get home there is steak and you are taking them all out.
You will take them all out, all the girls that ever loved you all the friends that have ever written you, you will take your mother out for lobster, she doesn’t drink anymore but fuck it, and you will drink because you are young.
You think this coming home so far away, what little do you know is that you will think tremendously about getting back there. To a place where everything made sense.