Emilia Batchelor

Imagine you were to write home and the entire letter is perceived as madness, is almost incomprehensible to people who
remember you in a certain fashion of expression,  that in the meantime has changed unrecognisably,  as to be Not Funny
but Worrying, though you yourself have, if not a small suspicion, no real idea of how much has changed.

I tell you to propose a catalogue of human smells used to allocate names when children are born.  That way, names are
more like flavours,  people are called after their particular excretions.  I have never used your name to your face,  and  I
have traced your face and inhaled it for hours. I am a chemical bag. It is not wise not to trust my moods. I have inhaled
you like I have sweated others out.

Come to think of it, you haven't seen a caterpillar in years.  When you were a kid,  you couldn't get enough of those cute
little green inflatable-looking guys, and you'd swear they were abundant. You spend too much time inside these days. In
the ten years  since  you used to watch them  flip  flop  ever so delicately over your fingers, before gently releasing them
into the wild,  or feeding them to the Venus Fly Trap,  though only if it had opened back up,  tired of your teasing,  for a
couple of days shut down,  you've probably  stepped  and squished hundreds of them.  If they ever  threaten  to eat our
brains, I promise to lower all my defences.

Imagine the person,  such  a  long  time ago,  sitting at their desk  crafting  the letter.  It's impossible,  so much it never
happened.  If only the letters of  your  name  formed  a  portrait,  then we might have  a  chance  at remembering what
happened here.

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