I don’t hear my voice, to keep track of what my brain does is to see you in front of me, typing and trying to think who I am, where I am and who I might be.
It feels like, as if the words had specific emotional content, associative feeling contained in it’s metric expression. They might also refer to an object, or experience, which shoots me in the chain of associations from time to time. It somehow feels good. And it is stupid.
I don’t know why I decided to write this letter for you. Maybe I just wanted to say something which I forgot. Things to say constantly lose their meaning. What is it?
I’m writing for you, because I like your range of tonality, not too high and not too low. And it leaves some space for me to focus on what I want to hear.
Do I really have something to say?
You are so artificial.