This book is for her, because she deserves more than just some gaddamn letter that my shaky hands could barely finish. Because she believed that we were all more than a few scribbled sentences on the inside cover of a notebook that has already been filled with pain (that's why this page is in the middle, and why this whole book is yours to keep or destroy or write about). I hope this is more than a couple of paragraphs pieced together on mismatched napkins, accidentally written while making a grocery list. You mean so much more to me than some **** book that you will one day write on a searching-for-happy afternoon, and your insanity makes more sense to me than anything else I've ever seen or felt or imagined. You said to leave something great in my absence and that, my friend, is why I am leaving you.