The latest draft has come much more easily, naturally and more confidently. I've found the voice; now I'm waiting for the words. The letter could almost end where it is, at about five hundred words, I've so sharply expressed myself; but I know there's more to say, and I want to give it time to surface in my mind. Confidence of purpose should aid my patience.
I have not been living in the minutiae of a Julie-day. Though I'm still hopeful of impressing her, as Tom Sawyer to Becky Thatcher, it's become more of a vestigial reflex than a conscious effort. When I discover the reflex I grimace and slap it away. My last conscious effort to elicit anything from Julie was made last Thursday, the night I lost my desk hour with Julie: I checked out a DVD to Inhouse for Julie to fix, and on the bottom of the slip, the part concealed in the case, I wrote "Fascinating!" Of course, there was no reaction. The letter will be the last of that sort of thing, and though I would hope it made some impression on her, I wouldn't expect to ever know what that was. Will knowing that I did what I had to do and did it thoroughly be enough to convince my heart that I'm over Julie?
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