I am going through his emails deciding what (of rage and pain and fear and frustration and helplessness and lust and grief and joy and hope and love) to delete. What to save, having failed already. When I save these for whom do I save them? Will I read them again or is it that I don't want to be the one again to say no to you? If I have dropped you out the car window at a cool 80, rolled up the window only to light a cigarette and put it down again, can I be kind to your letters? It isn't any kindness to you with no hope of a reply. Then there's that crux: how am I to remember you? I shape our correspondence with every nip and tuck.

Nine.

90.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.