this tastes so different from what i remember, secrets melting on my tongue and words rising from my stomach in little churning waves like bile. you should know i never expect this to work. you should know that i'd rather offer my own empty words than watch you hunt desperately for yours (are they under my bed, are they in with my skinmags, did i leave them in the car) but i can't dig any up for you--maybe if you'd let me find some real ones, some consolation, some purchase on this steep steady slope i could--



everything i do is empty.