Sunday, November 9, 1997
Dear Nova,
It will be another two hours until the sun rises, and everything here is quiet. My bag is packed, and when I finish this letter, I’ll close the door to my bedroom for what will likely be the last time.
For all these months, I’ve hoped to condense my world into these pages so you could follow—and so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I know my feeble words can never be enough to convey an absolute picture—although I’ve tried, nonetheless. How could anyone possibly understand through only these small glimpses—this patchwork of stories and feelings and clues? But then I wonder if maybe you’ve been by my side all along, even without these letters.
Since I last wrote, every waking minute has been a test of tolerating my own psychological torment. The image of t
