Dear Wigleaf,

Apologies for my delayed response. I was thinking of new ways to begin this postcard.

Hi Wigleaf,

So good to hear from you. Was it really just last week that I pretended not to notice you entering my therapist's waiting room?

To Wigleaf:

It's with a heavy heart that I send you this postcard, which contains the final transcript of my fading stream-of-consciousness: look at me look at me look at me look at ME look at ME look LOOK LOOK

Wigleaf,

I'm circling back re: my previous query, in which I begged you to take me seriously.

Hey Wigleaf,

You don't know me yet, but that's okay—you only ever need 50% of a parasocial relationship to be engaged at any given time. I wanted to pick your brain about an upcoming postcard whose balance of truth-to-lies is dangerously lopsided.

My beloved Wigleaf,

Wishing you the best, and hoping to hear back from you soon, and also hoping you still love me, and also hoping you will always be nice to me, and also hoping you never frown when you hear my name, and also hoping you would save me first from a burning building even if the building contained your loved ones, and also hoping you do not hate me even though I don't know where to start, and also hoping you do not hate me even though I am too vulnerable at the ends of things.

Yours truly,
Jean-Luc Bouchard