Preface.

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You don't know Alex.
Maybe by the end of all this you'll think that you do, you'll feel as though you've made some sort of connection, evoked some kind of feelings, but even then you still won't know him. You'll never know him, because even at the end of this he'll still be dead.

There's no coming back from that - death. It's an unending dreamless sleep, a vacuum that's eaten into your soul and rendered you forever lifeless. But it's what Alex wanted.
I knew him. Well I thought, so well that I could finish his sentences occasionally and guess what he was thinking from time to time, that comes with being twins I suppose.
But in a sense of bitter irony, I didn't know him quite as well as I had thought.
I knew the irrelevant stuff, the things people lay out at their surface. The things people show with a smile and a lighthearted tone, I was stupid enough to accept his 'I'm fine's' whenever anyone asked was he okay. I was stupid enough to pass off his constant scribbling as writing poetry instead of what it really was, the writing of truth, the writing of his messed up mind, of sadness and darkness and loneliness. I was stupid enough to misread the signs because I was stupid enough to be distracted by a boy, Ezra, his best friend.

That's what this is about, it's about writing when you can't talk, me mimicking Alex's motions from a lifetime ago, stopped over a table with his leather journal, penning notes because he couldn't talk, could never deeply talk.
I know how he feels now, this sadness, this darkness ebbing away at my consciousness. This guilt and regret
and eagerness to be anywhere, anywhere but here.
I feel it too Alex, it makes sense now.

Just give me a year, Al. Give me a year and then I will follow. You don't have to be alone anymore, I promise.
Twins into the world, Twins out.

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