Despite yourself, you look me up. After all, it’s been a while. You look to see if I’ve written about you. At the least, an echo in words, a vague reflection in those stories spun. Or maybe you’ve been in half of them all along, one way or another. Maybe the odd sentence, or a haiku, you think. You wonder if it’s good for you. I don’t mind if you don’t.

Sometimes I wonder

if you still read my stories

and whether you should.