Let me know how you’re feeling: every place, every person, every moment must be unique, and I know it doesn’t give your personhood justice, but I like to think that I know you (the important parts at least, of what makes you), and if there’s anything ----e doesn’t lack, it’s the passion for life and reflection. You told me before that you want to share with others (let it be the world!), that life is beautiful, and that each of us has the will and power to choose our road to happiness, and it matters little how we get there, how we struggle; if by foot, by motorbike, by hitch-hike, by truck, the hell with the road!- by yacht, by plane, by rocket, we can eventually get there. I’ve come to believe that the mind is not part of our ordinary hominal relation with time. What I mean is that although our bones will brittle, hair ashen, and skin wrinkle, the mind can jump from one “age” to another, it can travel to the deepest corners of our fantasies, to the farthest galaxies of our imagination. And I trust that whenever you reflect about your existence, labored by your experiences, that who you are must have changed. You mind must have explored just as much ground as your feet, and I don’t want to miss out any of it. Share any random footnote, no need for any chronological order, I hate order, am born in chaos, share even the tiniest scribbles along the margins. I’m better, still struggling with my own illness but I’m getting close to acceptance. I guess, in a way, we’re both standing at opposite sides of a balancing beam: I explore intangible worlds like the past, family history, my troubled mind, you explore the world of reality outside it (and within of course). I’m Dostoevsky’s Dreamer. True. I’ve become more compassionate, which I know I’ve always been, and I suffer/ed exceptional guilt hiding it.

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