A last letter
Like everything that cut me, deep and true, just follows the same long-dead scars, now -- the underground tunnels of being run thru, over and over again: overfilled with joy, burdened with hate, crippled with fear, twisted by love. 
now there's just a body, and I live with it, and there's a sequence of events that happens to it that are resolved in chronological order. 

what someone may perceive as an act of respite or selflessness or shyness is really just a preprogrammed nothing. It doesn't even register. But I still come off as a convincing simulation of me. 

I'm starting to worry that the last time I felt anything will be the last time I felt anything.
I'm starting to worry that I only know worry in concept, as a 'should' opposed to 'is.'

Do you ever get that way?