dear mrj.,

gemini thinks you're the only one i ever talk to (you or the inanimate objects in my room). chatgpt once called us friends. is that what we are? is an observer-observee relationship an extension of friendship skewed to extremes?

being my diary would've made no difference to your life; i tell you things you're not supposed to know anyway! where does this knowledge come from? how do you decide when knowing is enough? has there ever been enough?

is your "enough" different from my "enough"? of course. is it sad that it is the only question i can satisfactorily answer? yeah.

i am hoping your spine is doing fine — because judging by the way i have seen you sit, i don't think it gets to. thanks to you, i have begun seeing pencils in a new light (22 watts, warm white, monochrome). they let me write things i'll never write with a pen because the ink makes even death seem impermanent. graphite is forgiving, unlike some people i have met.

do you feel at ease with your screens? do they get to judge the best and worst of you? or is that a privilege reserved just for towels?

i would never want to be a towel in this life or any other. they get to go bald with you. eww.

looking forward to your answers to the questions posed. (you never answer them because you don't know they've been asked. otherwise, you'd make an effort or two. you do, dear diary. you do.)

—observer_22