(...) I'm too unhappy to write, to answer to anyone. It is not the effort to put sentences together, but the idea to send and to give, that's too tiring a thought. I don't know what it is. I have no voices in my head --only a dull annoying mess without a shape... wish to be put to sleep for good--

I got your message. "Hi, how are you doing?" you wrote. "Here it's working to the bitter end. I am not particularly happy but I'm living in a calm state, of physical and psychical silence --which I find enchanting. I'm sending you a kiss even though, harshly said, this place is eradicating any form of affection from my heart."

Nina I am not interested about what is eradicated from your heart.... or what not. How can I tell you this? You're probably too young and unexperienced to know that the heart isn't a patch of earth from where you "eradicate" stuff... nothing is ever eradicated.
Maybe the heart is a blackboard badly cleaned by a dusty eraser... how about that? All that has been removed can be written again, in a jiffy, sometimes the trace of it is still visible beneath the whitish hand-made curves of pulverized chalk, if only you look close enough, if only the light in the room is right.

I never cared much for the declarations of un-love (de-love) just as I never really minded the declarations of love... What's a declaration for? Illusions of control... (So you're over me? When were you under me?)
It was a long ago that I heard from a girl the words of love for the first time -- we were hugged kissing on a green bench in some public garden in the city, the girl's brown eyes were wide open on me.... all I could see and think was that she was all in her eyes looking at me, and that she was waiting for an answer I had to give. "Love is in the eyes of a girl". The answer had to be given. I just wanted to run... I'd still want to run to this day, if it wasn't that I need to be loved.
All I ever cared in my life were the feelings, all kinds of them: I put everything second to the feelings that were felt... including my sanity and my job but the feelings I only cared for were those that cannot be contained into words, and cannot be exchanged like goods or favors-- they are there, in between, and I am here, we are here, they're in between.

Declarations are even less important when you're away, Nina. One sees the real face of the heart when is next to it. Heart isn't a wireless fucking connection from a 12 miles high spying blimp or something-- true we haven't done anything, changed anything to be together because we never wanted to... but if we meet tomorrow, who's to say what's written on it? I know that this doesn't change anything, fuck, who wants to change anything?

I can't talk to Libi and I can't talk with you Nina about what's happening because of all the lies I said, and all things I omitted. Because I don't remember the dates, I don't know who or what came before and I am too ashamed to ask. Yeah I lied to you too, I've been hiding my feelings and I've been unable to share my worries too many times. Always took life from the wrong side (...)