To Whom It May Concern,

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I was up late writing a paper, drunk. Probably not a good idea but neither is drinking in general. Eventually worked myself into a stupor and found myself reaching out to your illusion. I've talked to many in text. I've touched other flesh. But nothing can even begin to reach the comparison of that ghostly caress. I don't know if it be smell, texture, dialect, or feel.. but each encounter has no comparable appeal. The compaction of morning spent in your bed . Forced connection of our flesh, touching and energy exchanged.. Feel like an addict and know nothing will come of my call out tonight. Temporary girl.. So cursed by the introduction into your world. I pulled pages from coloring books so we could be together.. in small way. Dreams never manifest. Listen to Cold War Kids.. what?,,, definitely stream of consciousness now.
Sincerely,Jonathan Piedimonte'''end.