doing much better, she writes frantically. sitting down in frnt of the small screen that she calls her own. she pours out her thoughts into that little box and then presses send. she sits there in her perfect little outfits- those flat across the front pants, black flip flops (somehow she was never able to let go of those), that tank top with the snail across the front and the small words snail printer underneath. of course it doesn't make sense, but it still amuses her and her friends. she sits there writing that letter to her long lost friend, who has always kept in touch despite the miles and waters separating them. pouring out in torrents, like those waters during a storm. but she types ccalmly, accepting what she has to say here. and the troubled spirit comes out and takes ove rher hands and fingers and soon you see the words begin to take different shape. and out the window goes third person and she begins to mutter. i know i'm not doing much better, but it feels go to be able to start a letter with that. maybe i am doing better because i can see what is going on in my mind, she continues. the words coe out of her mouth 'but this is all wrong. wrong, wrong. why can't you just listen for once and stop waiting for your turn to speak.' her mind writing one thing while her mouth gives her away. a scream.
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