Dearest Cecilia, the story can resume. The one I had been planning on that evening walk. I can become again the man who once crossed the surrey park at dusk, in my best suit, swaggering on the promise of life. The man who, with the clarity of passion, made love to you in the library. The story can resume. I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame.
Right. So … fuck. Sorry. Right. Yeah. So, um, fucking … yeah. Basically, if you can, like, choose your identity — because I tried today, and now I feel sort of less like me. And, I mean, I’m not exactly over the moon about being me in the first place. But now, I think I kind of like it less when I’m trying not to be me. Because I just … I just want to, like, be