An idle mind is the devil’s workshop. Into the idiots: neurosis.
Oden lives in a box. All white, flat, smooth walls and no windows. A constant dripping sound though there is no place for water. There is a desk and chair and on the desk there is an open notebook. The pen beside it is fine point; green ink. Oden is a writer. So Oden writes and nothing else. Oden has never been outside the box nor desired to leave; never needed to replace the pen.
So strange the sensation missing you is.
She was the last thing I clearly thought about before I died. Every detail was precise; creating a phantom of her next to me that I knew I couldn’t actually touch. I couldn’t trace the crescent-like lining of her vitiligo that peaks from above her left ear, trailing towards between her lips to the back of the right side of her jaw, or kiss her after. I couldn’t wipe the tears from her spectral eyes and I couldn’t say goodbye. I knew this was going to happen, that they would kill me, so I planned ahead. She’ll find my letters and she’ll have me in her hands. I rather her treasure me as paper than as a memory of my limp and empty shell. She’ll find my letters.