Some days, I regret it. I regret that it ever happened, the way I let myself become diseased and mutilated by this virus that is paradoxically so intimately tied to human life. But then, there are those days when I revisit those vignettes and letters I once wrote to you (yes, you are no longer worthy of the capital Y -- disregarding the contemplative Why) and when I see those pretty words strung into lovelorn sentences, I can't help but think of a dazzling jeweled choker baring its diamond teeth around a fragile neck and then I wonder where all my beautiful words have gone, as if you sucked them dry and left me with nothing.
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