Letters to the indifferent interior

My Dear B--,

The cheif has called and his calling means something. I don't know quite where the lines stop and the noises start but somewhere within my hollow body there happens to be a tick of sorts. A tick and a rattle and the chief suddenly noticed all of my less formidable restraints--the saran wrap stuck to the walls in the kitchen, the lint from my pockets growing into collector sized blue-grey balls. My linings are full of fluff. Even the best parts are stuffed. Oh, but you speak so harshly with your pen. You settle debts with your openings like they're for rent and I've seen worse things happen to people in the street who act in such a disinterested manner.

You shouldn't command so. I'm beginning to question our correspondence almost wholly. But I know you've known the way. I should go better than I most often do. Yet I trust that you will remain a capable guidance in my life--sometimes it may draw a strained voice from me, but know that I know that you know what to know and sometimes I don't and for me that's settling. To know what's known and what's not.

I remember with a fond mind your former life. I remember like it's living still and when we were made entirely harmonious. But the wings of things--insect and pigeon especially--and the clutter we created, it is truly a wonder they ever let us on board to begin with. I'll never sink your shadow. Or rather, the shadow you cast can never get enough of itself over me, even from the distance we keep.

On another note, I've given the phone up entirely. And I've taken to eating. It's almost as if I never knew how before. There is no trouble this time. I wait to hear how and if you are as well.

Yours,
H--