I hold myself back because, honestly, I can't imagine how I'd feel if you read some of the things I wrote about you in the back of my black Moleskine journal. Some would bounce right off you like the petty value judgements they are; or, maybe I could explain just enough of how I feel to end us. Words can soften over time, but I don't think that I could say the same about your actions. It was two September twenty-seconds ago, but every time it crosses my mind, it feels immediate, like cold water splashed on my face from a muddy Omaha street on a summer afternoon when the sun should've been out.