you can't throw letters into the fountain.

Jules told me this morning that the weather did Boston first, then Baltimore. Life is more literary than literature, I remember, wishing I were sitting on the lip of the fountain where etc. while I relate this quotation to you, but I’m a thousand miles away from it and a quarter of that from you, wearing nothing but a gray t-shirt and addressing you letters I will throw into its lack of waters—it’s October, after all. I have photographic proof you’ve seen it but I’ve never asked you about it. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling wishing you would return. I take photos with my phone I can't ever show you. I can’t justify word one of this to anyone, but there’s a pull, unassailable, and I’ll sit in a Baltimore train station at 3:55 Monday morning for reasons I can’t articulate. I take my permanent marker from a plastic cup on my desk with fortunes taped to it—“Stop searching forever, happiness is just next to you”—and write “You are Loved” at my base. I won’t tell you I did it, but it will be there when the Jack Bauer clock runs itself out.