dear reader, i’ve broken my own fourth wall, reeling. the fiction i worked to create was a caricature of the reality i never knew existed. the history of a character wrote the future of its author. i’ve become entangled in the psychology of myself, and what miseries i’ve written slow now reveal themselves not as invented but repressed. my life is a book, and the fiction is peeling from the pages and binding tight my struggling chest. the psychosis of an imaginary character is the reflection of a creative psychosis of an author’s imagination. the walls are shivering with my hands. memory besets dream besets memory again. dear reader, i wrote to you because i needed to write to someone, to escape myself. elsewhere, i thought i was writing fictions. here, i thought i was expressing. but i have only escaped into myself, thinking that was an escape and not a return. the lines of reality are blurred (physically? metaphysically? tears.), and the pen which once chewed on the words creation now spits curd of biography. dear readers, i’ve touched your lives and i’ve read your messages, i know, but i must run from you again. i am an echo of a sketch of an echo of myself; a figment fading more upon each iteration. look not for me here for a while. this was not an escape, it was an incarceration. i’ve written the bars and i’ve remembered the concrete. look not for me here for a while. this was not an existence, it was a breakdown in slow motion. look not for me here for a while. it might be time to take up medication again. so long as that medication is neither me nor you. look not for me here for a while. but i will love you still.