So you came to the understanding, you said, that I was perhaps going through some problems, and that you weren't being told about it; and that you regret that fact.
How can I tell? I don't tell these things to anyone. And how do I tell a tale I don't know the beginning or end of? I don't have much of a talent for improvisation.
I try to turn everything into a story; I could tell you that. I have been working on different angles and closing chapters forever now; I don't know how I could possibly present these ideas and give an accurate presentation of what part you have played, and still play; how much I have thought of you, how much you have meant; had I been Tolstoy, I could make you understand, had I been Kundera or Marquez, I would have told you what I thought, and you would have understood.
But I am not. On the contrary; I have a fear of deeply convoluted paragraphs. Throughout the night and morning I consider this, and I choose, I think,
I choose neither, I choose none.