'you never write me back in the cold and sober howling winds of daylight, where you're in danger of being seen. you never write me when your form cannot bleed into the formless, rooting in, burrowed deep into the ground, wrapping ahold of me tight, feeling rather than seeing -- much unlike this stark and starchy daylight living. You only write when we re both tasting death by the precarious and curious handful, trading each other in equal parts, in flesh and ceremony and spirit. You know me like nobody else, and yet you're afraid of me seeing you. Youre afraid of the quiet, the bleak: the haze of normality and arbitration in every step on the cement where our secret names were writ the night before.

Youre afraid.
And you worry that I'm not.

I'm terrified, but only slightly more than being terrified without you.'