11.8

Today, I read your writing. It was like holding your beating heart, not for safe-keeping, but because you needed someone else to feel its weight. I knew you, as I read it. Not the things you were saying, but more and greater, the difficulty of you, the passion, the fear and the self-doubt. Your writing was emphatic and emotional, the effort of beauty writ plain. I have nothing left to say. Stop editing; it's perfect.