Talking to you is like cream crackers for dinner. It’s quaint, but never entirely satisfying. Still, often I find myself rising from my bed in the dead of night and snaking into the pantry. I’ll stick my hand into a cardboard box, sit with my back to the wall, and devour cracker after cracker. They sit painfully in my digestive tubes, impairing my sleep patterns and leaving me with colorful, meaningless dreams. You have filled my esophagus with feelings that have too much texture and too little substance.