He has spoken. The He I do not know of. Who I believe in only some days. Whose letter I wonder about--and if it waits at the bottom of a blue bin on the corner of California and Diversity.

He challenges me by submitting his thoughts without patience and expects the receiver to adhere to patience, and solely.

Please listen to me. Tell me I am good. Tell me what I did is great.
I have no time for you.
Solipsist.

The world is connected and connecting and by 'world' it is mine and those who share it with me: Sam, asleep on the floor behind me; Dan, asleep on the couch across from me--behind the wall; and John, asleep in the room next to me, behind the other wall. A dear and great friend had said the other night, your presence is felt in this room. This 5x5 white writer's room. This is where the next great american novel will be written. With an attic to myself--it is not there, but in this small space where I would like to write. One window encased by symmetrical rows of green leaves, an empty lot of weeds, trees, and dirt across the road, and a highway where a constant flow of vehicles create ocean sounds.

I searched for him last night, him and his wife. Her photos were still the same. The same two that I've already got stored and can look at anytime. For all I have to do is close my eyes or concentrate hard enough and there are blue eyes, hoop earrings, and a pensive look staring off. For him, the same. A mug shot. I remember the first time he had sent it. Why would he send this? A mug shot for someone who barely knew him. Yet, intrigued, correspondence continued.

The wife had told me that she had fallen back in love with him, but at that moment, she was not--and not to worry. She was having another man over, someone who she has been dating, and she felt the need to tell me--so that I would have known that all the while, I had known.

It is easy to become lost in secrets and winding stairwells of passages filled with only bits of information. This is a story that is already enough without the knowing of what was in the past.

I could leave them and be gone but what would He do? How would my betrayal effect Korah? He would not be able to continue by himself--they need me. I cannot go.

"My mother used to read my journals when I was a girl. She approached me once about something I had written and I stopped writing because of it."

A love so great, so pure, destroyed--to be hung. Laying beside her and our future child. She told me I would never be alone. She is a cunt, a liar, a commitment betrayed.

I promise you. You will never be alone.

Did she write this while next to him? Asleep, his naked body coiled, the sheet of Shiva above their heads. Had she really betrayed his trust by only kissing another man beside him? Truly, that was enough to damage him so completely?

"I will marry you. I will divorce her. We are not married. She is not my wife. This institution of marriage is folly. We are signatures on a piece of paper, that is all. She wrote a prize-winning poem about our court date. Crash and Leave. It is well to be known that she hates me--and I, her."

In his phone, he had her as K-- the cunt.