You know how they deal with those kind of things.
They try to coat it with a sincere apology,
then they wrap it up with layers of tissue papers, soft and fluffy,
then they put it into a little box,
and, finally, they put it under your pillow.
For days and nights, you sleep on it, and you dream about it.
Sometimes your dream looks happy, sometimes sad, but always fuzzy.
You don't know what's in that box, you are obsessed with it, but you don't want to know.
It feels like that the little box has been there forever.
Its content is an eternal speck of dust, insignificant but unchangeable:
whether you open the box or not will never change the thing inside.
When you, with trembling hands, decide to unwrap the box,
the air you breath thins out.
At last, when you see that speck of dust, like thousands of people before you,
you let out a little cry.
You know it is just dust.
You stare at it and the dreams you've had
for days and nights
all burst at once.
Their corpse flow upstream to gather at one point in your throat
so it becomes swollen and itchy.
And, at the same time, the weight of your soul diminushes.
Not much, it only loses a tiny speck of dust,
a little dust who dies with the thought that it isn't wanted.
Nearly four hours after the incident, I feel as alive as ever.
The sense of defeat didn't linger long enough to kill me.
Ben, you are a terrific person, and I'd still like to go to MIT and meet you, someday.
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