Dear Paul,
I am writing to you because I don't know you. Hence my courage. You are somewhere inside my head. Perhaps if I am lucky, you are inside this very world. I could be anyone. You don't have to believe me. I am a poet, not a songwriter. But I wrote a song. It's a duet. You should sing it with me. But you can't yet because the music's unwritten. The composer and I are still working on it. His name is David. He's quite brilliant. He's the one who inspired me to write a short story about you. You're real in the sense that you are a relic of my fabrication. You're not supposed to be real, but you are because you exist in my own reality. You're there but I don't know where I can find you. Are you the one who gave me "delusional" in my dream? I turned that word inside my head a million times trying to understand whatever meaning it held for me. I did not succeed but that doesn't matter because--I don't know--it's meaningless to brood like that. I beg your pardon. You never gave me "delusional," you gave me "delusive." I can't believe my own confusion. Coffee doesn't taste like anything anymore. Do you still read her letters and keep them? I can't think of much else to say. Thank you for everything else. Be my "else." I'll be your everything.
