She contacted me again, you know, after all this time, wearing a prison striped dress so I could court her if I would ever send her to jail. She asked thirteen things, two of them being if I would come back. I never left, and she had to understand that on her own. That I am part of her, not even of her imagination, but of her real life, here.

I don’t bring along a manuscript when I enters someone’s heart. Maybe she should write it for me.