an epistolary novel, irl, was really just bro-ing down with graham greene. and we check the theory again.

I looked and looked at the .obj, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die,
that I loved the .obj more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth.

The .obj was only the dead-leaf echo of the (sexually precocious pre-adolescent) .obj from long ago - but I loved the .obj, this OBJ, pale and polluted and big with another's child.
The .obj could fade and wither - I didn't care.

I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of the face.obj


*okay!theory checks out*