Dear X, I am writing from a deep, dark place of regret. This word, regret, is really a lullaby. It helps you grasp the night with hands so clean and explains the world and never explains anything. I know how you died (just a little). And now, you are myunshaped form, the unfinished being, my Golem, my husk. So, dear X, dear dearly departed, you must know that for a world so hollow, you must also be hollow. Turn over that centre to us. Everyone has a centre. A brilliant flaming centre that tethers one to hope and love and peace and some measure of tranquil sorrow. You said that you could never find yours. And so I must write to you from a deep, dark place of regret. I know how you died (just a little).
