This is the kind of thing I hate. You make me regret making that pact with you. What part of it’s over don’t you understand? WE ARE DONE. And there’s nothing you can say to change that. I didn’t understand your love or whatever. I don’t fucking care. What good has your love done to you? You just come up with these bullshit and think you’re making sense. Well, think again! Because only you exists in that shrinking bubble of yours. And no one wants to join you there. Telling me that I don’t understand love is one of your pitiful attempts at making sense. But it’s all senseless. What has the mind’s eye got to do with it. You think I don’t know of the mind’s eye? What has all these things got to do with love?! You make up trash and expect the world to digest it. You know what I think your problem is? You got too much time on your hands! If you were actually working, then you won’t put so much thought into something as simple and instinctive as love. Get a job. I’ve told you before. Get a life. And remember that the pact didn’t include reading the letters. I’ve told you before, I could decide not to read your letters anymore. I’ve been pitying you and you’ve been stretching it. Consider this your last warning.