Hello Friend,

I know it hasn’t been long but I saw that man again, the one who pulled a knife on the woman while I was walking home the other night. It turns out he lives in the same building as me. In fact, it turns out they both do. As you know, I’ve lived in my apartment block for awhile, but I suppose people’s faces fade into the noise of the city, or perhaps, I let them fade. Frankly, I never even really consider the possibility of seeing someone twice. But, despite my endeavors to erase the persistence of strangers, as I arrived home the other day, there he was leaning on the wall outside the front entrance.

Of all the faces to fade into the background, I had hoped mine would be one of the easiest to lose, but rather than politely forgetting, he waved. I asked him what he was doing at my home, but he seemed confused by the question, and just gestured vaguely with his cigarette. I figured I might be his next target, and when he stamped out the smoke and followed me inside, my fears were confirmed. In a way, I felt betrayed, and for feeling betrayed, I felt silly. But really, I have nothing I fear to lose, and so I pretended not to notice. When I reached my apartment, though, instead of following me inside, he rustled in his jacket and produced some keys.

“What are you doing?” I asked him as he unlocked the door across from mine. Again, I was met with a confused look, “do you know my neighbor?”

“What do you mean?” He grumbled, before leaving me in the hallway with my confusion.

Ever since then, I’ve seen him hanging around. We’ve even had a conversation here or there when I find him smoking outside on my way home. It turns out his name is David. The interesting thing is, the last time this happened, he showed me a lottery ticket he had bought, and on the way up the stairs, as we were joking about what we might do with our winnings, I spotted the woman he mugged sitting on the top step. Her hair looked disheveled and she was crying on the phone with someone, but it was unmistakably her. As we passed, I saw nothing in her eyes to indicate she remembered me or David. Even weirder, it didn’t seem he recognized her, either. He glanced at her for a moment, but ultimately went on about the fleet of boats he would buy, as she continued her argument without missing a beat.

I thought about how small the world can be, and I wondered if he had ever mugged anyone twice without knowing. Then I wondered if that was worse or better than robbing two people once.

Here’s to coincidence,

Your dear friend.

Dear friend,

Last night the rhythm of my keyboard scratched an itch in my brain as I typed in the right set of commands, and as I hit enter, the silence that followed marked the end of my workday. I saw dollar signs reflected back at me in the glowing text, and it was then I felt how dry my eyes had become, my only metric for how much time I had spent working. That moment reminded me of how long it has been since I've written to you, and so here I am. I know you're groaning at talk of my work, and lately it has consumed me, but don’t worry, I will not bore you with details. As you know, the life of a hacker is not interesting, as the life of a spy wouldn’t be interesting if described to you by said spy. The issue with asking someone about their own life is that they can't help but bore you with all the context that a good journalist would know to leave out.

Walking home later, I watched a woman heading in the same direction. It was dark, and the street was quiet, so I adjusted my speed so as to not get too close. We marched in that procession for a few blocks before I crossed the street to overtake her, and it was then that she was approached by a man. At first I thought he was asking for change, but he pulled a knife from his pocket, and I watched as he exchanged threats for her wallet. She looked towards me from across the road before handing it over, but she didn't bother asking for help. I think she saw right through me. I truly don't think she saw anyone there.

The funny thing is, later that evening I saw the same man a second time on my way to get a lottery ticket. He bumped into me on the way inside the store, and I apologized, though I'm not sure why in retrospect. He smelled of cigarettes, and it made me want one. I know I told you I had stopped smoking, and I had, but I will admit to you friend, I bought a pack from that convenience store. I didn't smoke the whole thing, though, since I gave one to the mugger when he asked on my way out. I'm really not sure why I didn't say no.

We didn't really talk much as we stood outside the shop. He asked me about my lottery ticket, and I told him it was probably a worse habit than the smoking. At least when I smoke, there is no delusion about the result. I found him quite likable, really. Having a smoke with a stranger introduces that sort of bias, I think. Maybe it is something about dying together. It's an insidious thing to be honest, as I fell asleep, I thought of that man with his wiry hair, and oversized army surplus jacket, but it wasn't until I began writing this to you that I thought of the woman he robbed. I’m not sure if that says something about him or me.

Well wishes.

Your friend.

A stone pillar protected by nothing,

Buffeted by the weather,

Grows sharp, and pointed.

And this is okay.

And over time, the weather will wear down that point,

And the stone will grow smooth again.

This is okay, too.

That is what the weather does.

This is what stone does.

Regardless of the fires I start,

And the starvation, and the water I withold.

Of my neglect.

I can never, forever prevent that sunflower from blooming.

From persevering through the ash laden floor of my soul.

I am smiling a smile the sound of our tender voices late at night.

There is no-one to wake, but we talk in tones,

Of peach and tea-stained beige to ensure this moment doesn't break,

Apart.

Your face is inches from mine,

And your voice treats me kindly, as mine treats you.

As we treat each-other.

Pears growing in India know nothing of cold Canadian winters,

And yet they end up here,

Bearing the responsibility of feeding me their temperate feelings.

Consider - travelling so far from home,

To bring a moment of sweet,

To a pale boy hiding beneath covers for warmth,

As the snow piles.

Of course, the pears need not consider it,

Nor do you.

Every time evening breaks through the frigid day,

And you invade my frigid mind,

To remind me of warmer places.

Dust floats down as I kick around the artifacts of my life.

And it coats my fingers as I brush off my lies, once in awhile.

And in the residue, you are there.

Like the graphite that coats this page,

You coat my lungs,

Like the cigarette I smoke in secret,

Which is anything but,

With you watching me there.

It is hard for me to die quietly.

And alone,

With the shadow of your eyes watching,

Through the soot on the mantle of my parent's fireplace,

As I decide not to pour another, and flick off the light,

In the streaks that dance across my vision,

I see you there.

I have crafted my life for you.

You said you thought my record player was cool.

I told you that my record of choice is by Simon and Garfunkel,

And it is,

Except, my record player isn't plugged in.

In fact, I think I broke it moving here.

Here, a place I moved for the light,

Remember? I showed you the view.

And you took pictures of the sunset.

Except, my curtains are drawn from morning into the night,

And my window is too dirty to see through.

I had a vision of writing at this desk under warm light, with a warm drink,

In an atmosphere that would ease all of my anxieties.

But my drink has gone cold as I write this,

As I only have two hands.

And wrappers pile on my desk with water cups, and dust.

Because my room is lived in,

By a human who has anxieties, and a pension for forgetting little things.

And I cannot sanitize me from my life forever.

And yet, for a few hours I'll let you believe in my lie.

And, when you don't see my fretful staging before your visit,

You may too think to clean yourself from your life.

And I am so sorry.

Maybe next time, I'll forget to vacuum,

So you might be in my home with me,

And then, with any hope, in yours with you.

The lights cast greasy streaks across the bus windows,

And I glance at my reflection in them.

A fight breaks out between a girl and her cellphone,

And I try not to hear what she says.

But it's something about how things are getting lonely,

Though it was worded a little differently,

She misses her friends from back home,

And she hates this city.

As the bus hurls itself through the darkness I wonder if we are even in the city anymore,

Or if we are somewhere even more removed,

From the friends we have somewhere distant.

And I thought about how just out of eyesight,

Is the same as a flight,

Away.

In all the ways that matter.

And the girl hung up the phone.

I could feel the frustration welling up beside me.

Glancing, I saw a face ready to give up all of the tears it held onto,

And I said nothing.

Because I wasn't her distant friend,

And she wasn't mine.

We rode in silence, then, for awhile, nearing the end of the line.

Her stop was first,

And I watched her step out.

A lone streetlamp lighting the bus stop.

She was back in the city now, and out of our lonely tunnel.

And I wondered then, as the doors closed, if it helped.

To have someone suffer the same as you.

And the bus rolled on once more,

And when I got off, there was no streetlamp to return me to the city.

I've stayed in the dark night that bus blazes through, ever since.

The echo of distant footsteps trickle through the air,

As I catch my breath before you reach the door.

So that I might be effortless as I step out of the night,

And into your arms.

Like it is paramount that I appeared on your doorstep,

Like I didn’t sit on the bus for far too long, and walk a bit too fast,

For a body that I treat with too little respect.

Like it would ruin everything if you thought of me as anything less than

Greater than human.

But I’m not, I guess. I find that hard to admit.

As I nod to your guests, and shackle opinions,

Of anything but obvious easy answers, and sure things,

The couch wraps around my body, hiding the tension held within it.

And a joke escapes my mouth, before anything true finds its way out.

I’ll smile for real when you walk in the room,

I’ll tell you it’s because of something else.

You’ll believe me because you don’t know better,

And I’ll resent you, because I don’t either.