I know the horrors about which you write are not exaggerated by degrees, but I can never tell what is real and what is just a representation of real possibility. You read like a memoir crossed with a Dickens novel if Dickens had imagined gay protagonists, to me. And I both love that and it frustrates me, and I LOVE THAT IT FRUSTRATES ME. You are enigmatic and profound and horrifying and unapologetic and I appreciate the glimpse into your world. Thank you.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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