Words are abstraction, break off from the green; words are patterns in the way fences and trenches are. Words hurt. I can hide in words so long as I scatter them through my body; to read your letters is to gather flowers from within myself, pluck a blossom here, a fern there, arrange and rearrange them in ways to suit a sunny room.

But when I think of you, I want to be alone together. I want to strive against and for. I want to live in contact. I want to be a context for you, and you for me.I love you, and I love you, and I want to find out what that means together.

Words can wound – but they’re bridges too. (Like the bridges that are all that Genghis left behind.) Thought maybe a bridge can also be a wound? To paraphrase a prophet: Letters are structures, not events. Yours give me a place to live inside.

I feel almost invincible in our battles’ wake: a kind of Achilles, fleet footed and light of touch. Only in this nonexistent place our letters weave do I feel weak.

Red may be mad, but to die for madness is to die for something.

This feels like being cut off, again, in the strangest way - feels like teetering on the brink of something that will unmake me.

I would rather break the world than lose you.

At the end as at the start, and through all the in-betweens, I love you.