Yeah, I still read what you say. Don't know why. I don't think I expect anything, I actually don't believe that I want an answer (for what?) or a clue; it's more like a habit or a matter of trust (if I know you do, you know I do too, and stop the game now could even mean dissapointing eachother), since I know (we know) the game is mutual. It's just to keep on playing as rules (never written ones) state. And now, I made a move (thanks for the information). While I was dreaming about childhood and blue-squared memories, you dreamt about the pine, the cigarettes boxes, the smoke out the mouths. Oh, god, dreams still fiction. But this's getting, as the movie, stranger than fiction. And the game's sick, the game's wicked. Yes, it's. It's always been. And it still is as it was at the beginning. You're perfectly right.
What now? Now we know a story has been written. And maybe we know -don't know if not for sure- that our roads are definitely crossed. At least, the same building contains our souls some hours -or a lot- a week. And I don't know, maybe you sit near the pine and watch the faces pass by. Maybe I stare at the same pine from a fifth floor window, trying to guess who's sitting next to it. And it's all fantasy, fiction. It's all part of the parallel life that pen (well, keybord this case) has created. But there's always a chance to. A chance cause there's a pine, there's a pink room, there's a five-floor universe where we converge. There's a blue ribbon that I usually wear, too.
I have always a ligther with me. Do you carry one, too?. You walk through the same corridors I do. And coincidences keep on appearing, we can't avoid the fact.
But -oh!- I never carry a box of cigarettes.
Maybe you've written the other end -an alternative one- to that already written story. We'll never figure which one's the real one. Unless they're all fake, unless the game should end in a different way. A matter of time.