You ask whether I’m writing about you and the short answer is ‘yes’ and the rest of this fumbling letter can be the long one.You’d like to hear everything, I’m sure, conceited as you are: how I fell in love with you, how I still long for you – and then you’ll probably want me to find poetry in all this misery, and to pull some wisdom out of my ass, and admittedly I should be able to manage that.