He has no idea how long it’s been. Full of literature, dreams, and paths that diverge in a yellow wood. I always held hope that he would let his hair grow, find a more comfortable jacket. It’s been a journey brutal at times and exacting at others. They are the only two who write like that, who know exactly what I am, regardless of the mask I display, the airs I put on, the French I speak in public. The last is always like the first; they are not one, but the same, and, knowing such . . .
