It is clear. I remember you hazily. Incorrectly. Does this matter? In my reconfiguring of us, much of the contradictory truth has been reduced to official fiction. Again, what of it? If I imagine you falsely, and my retrospective editing hurts no one, scarcely even me, what value exactness? Am I not better to love you like this – perhaps foolishly – than to give precedence to the more bitter alternatives of selective memory, or to the cold dismissals of attempted forgetting? We all reinvent one another in hindsight, no matter how hard we try to cling to veracity…and I would rather imagine your beauty. She is the figment I would more gladly walk beside. It is the thought of her that warms me, and it is to she whom I address this letter. Whatever details are lost in this misty translation, a form of truth remains. I feel it here, lodged in my heart. Give it any name you like, for it is not that kind of truth. Most likely, it never was.
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