No one will tail your cab once you leave in real life. No one will search for you after years of your absence. No one will remember your face and throw in insanely unnescesarry efforts to see it again.
Those things never happens in here. But the most I, this holographic projectile I'm trying to make you see, can promise, is that I will tell you about the poetries I wrote of you, how I could not sleep at night when I think of you and how I lose my breath each glance over you I had. If I leave for another strange place this February. Making a dent, are we?
