Dear Mikhail,

When did I start writing to you, Mikhail? How long has it been now?

I made you up, but at some point, you became real. Or was it the other way around? Maybe I’m the one who is made up. For sure, what I say here is what I choose and what I choose is my choice. What’s a boy supposed to do?

I suspect you infer more about me from what isn’t here than what is. Yes?

How is it where you are now? It’s hot here – and grows hotter nearly by the day, it seems. And quiet too. Oh, so quiet.

I can’t play my records. I still have my books to keep me company – even if I can only read by day. I find myself timing my life so that I can stay up late during nights of the full moon just for the luxury of reading at night. It was always my favorite time to read. There is something different about the quiet of night rather than what the day brings.

I digress, as I always do. I want to know more about you. How are you? Are you alone – like me – or do you have someone to hold you and talk with and eat with? Someone to care for you when you’re ill and to tell you it will all be all right when the storms come?

I forget again – you’re not real. Or I’m not. Either way, there can be no answer to this unless I write it myself.

It’s just me, myself, and I. I’m all by myself. As I’ve always felt. And I’ll betray myself to anyone, lost, anyone but you.


My name is.

Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin, 1925, oil on canvas. Public Domain from

Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin, 1925, oil on canvas. Public Domain from

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