P to the A to the R to the A to the P-P-A. I never finish that phrase, but today? I'm feeling magnanimous. Spell it out for you, as if you could handle this. I ain't even plannin' this brash first draft, and if you're feelin' slanderous, then I'm just an--- I never cuss or curse. That's always much the worst. But if you're making up a list, then I am what? The first. The first pal you might turn to if things go wrong, or to rock an impossible song, or just to take along when you travel with your new band. Milkcan. I'm your hype man. Get a clue, man. I'm the right man for you, man. S-U-double-N-Y. If life is like an anime, then I'm her bishie sentai. Or at least I wish I was. I can go ahead and try. Wanna see her happy, not bitter like endive. And I can kick, punch, turn, and chop, and I can make my way to the tippity-top! The fun don't stop in Parappatown! PJ, and Katy, and me gettin' down. (Ma-san and Lammy and me) (my pal Boxxy Boy and me) (Tamanegi-sensei and me) I say "I gotta redeem!," but what does that mean? Lemme get up on the stage and spit for you in 16. I had a pretty nice life. Never much been burned. No pain. No strife. Young pup from the 'burbs. But I've been kicked to the curb. Everything I got, well I earned. And every scuff and every scrape is just a lesson I've learned. One thing I've discerned: don't call a chicken a turkey. If you do, do it covertly, else she's bound to get surly. And never take a journey with a pilot who's got post-traumatic stress disorder, and the plane's out of order, and I've learned that makin' burgers sure beats eatin' noodles. To be truthful? I've learned buyin' Chin Chains ain't fruitful. And youthfulness is just a concept of the mind, like kicks and punches, difficult to define. But the truth, y'all, is this: you are what you believe in. Now you're debriefed. Parappa out. I'm peacin'.

Check the mirror once more to be sure that this is the real life, and that sound is the sound that I heard and this sight is the sight that I saw I'm in the bathroom, waiting for the other shoe to fall 'cause I knew the call was untrue the moment that I heard it, but the letter has her handwriting, and all the sordid details that we shared from a female perspective: persuasive enough to be abrasively effective. But it's got to be deceptive, 'cause Mary is long gone. So then why respond to this con? Is it 'cause I still feel wrong? Is it 'cause I'm not strong? Is it 'cause I feel alone? Or somebody found me out and now my cover's blown? I got a closet full of bones. A pantry full of skeletons. In the House of Secrets, I'm a permanent resident. You set the littlest precedent that shows you might return, and I'mma upturn my life to see you reborn. Tell me now, James. Do you deserve all this pain? Static and...fog. It's unclear what you want, dear. And it appears I'm in arrears on my promise to you to come here. And I'd shed one tear if I could find a tear to spare, but my blood, sweat, and tears are in a constant state of scar- city, 'cause this Scare City's got me on the run. I must be one dumb dude, 'cause even though it's no fun, I keep maintaining the hunt, but my patience's wearing thin, and my health is wearing low, and my head is set to spin, but I'm meeting lots of friends! That's our vacation tradition. I met a man who looks suspicious, and a girl with disposition to self-harm, and a tyke with a mission like mine: to find Mary Sunderland--or die tryin'. I swear I saw you smile in the dark in the park. My heart pounded in my cheast as we met. You remarked: "Do I look like your girlfriend?" Uh, yeah, you do. "Then stay with me!" Stop bein' rude! I'm not here for you. Though you look like my lady, you're shady. A snake in the grass, too hasty to snatch up a white knight. Something's not quite right. You look like her, but spoutin' trite tripe: "Stop mistaking me for her. Mary's dead. You killed her." Bitch! Do I look like a killer? Don't act bewildered! She had a disease. I wouldn't hurt Mary. Now please, let's proceed to the place I believe that she wants me to see: that's the hotel where she and I had found peace. Now cease your--HOLY SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?! I DON'T WANNA DIE! I'mma skeedaddle. Scat. Whew. Oops. I've forsaken the harlot. Her days are numbered. Or lettered. A study in scarlet. Shit...wait. I left her to die. Does that mean I'm as much killer as she implied? Not much time remaining. For all the inhumane things I did, I need to do some explaining: I'll claim to what you think. Mary's dead. I killed her, then rebuilt her as Maria. Just as I willed it. But the hole wasn't filled yet. So I gotta leave. Ciao. There was a hole here. (beat, beat) It's gone, now. And I made the wrong vow. Shouldn't have hoped you were living. Asked for more time. Should've asked for forgiveness. And if this rings untrue, or sounds somewhat hollow, if it seems I took too big of a chunk and can't swallow, then follow me on this--I insist, I'll make it right. I'mma shift my car to kiss water tonight. And it's just me and my beloved at the bottom of Toluca. I hope this makes it up to ya.

You're a digital native; I'm a digital immigrant. I'm getting in deeper, and I'm losing my innocence. This code's inelegant, but it'll get the job done. Drop in the overflow. I know I only got one shot. Shot in the dark: logged on for the first time. BBS messages, hooked from the first line. The worst rhymes? Nah, the girl was graceful. Words on the LCL, their meaning fateful. I play it cool and send my thoughts in a message. Got a reply that was just as expected. Accepted my critique as true, but wanted to know "What do my words mean to you?" Time goes by, and we're chatting on the daily. I'm feeling like we know each other pretty much innately. I feel I greatly improve her mood. Log on every day. She picks mine up, too! I get excited by the thought of her emails. She's my favorite digital female. She got my thinkin' hard about love, dude. She musta felt the same. Message said: "I love y--" (static, adlib confusion) Shot through the heart, in the dark by the screen's glow. Her leaving me was a blow to the ego. Was it ever real, though? Did I just imagine it? Love like an eBook: difficult to paginate, difficult to quantify, nebulous and stormy. Message ping. Guess she had a last note for me. Hard to tell if this message is legitimate. Binary scrambles. Most of it is gibberish. What little I can get is that she's acting like Leia: sayin' only I can help her. I can be her savior. That somebody was chasin' her (an ex-lover?). Left an address where I might find her brother. I visit the board with a bit of trepidation: I'm anxious. Her bro don't help. The explantion is thusly: the man would turn Turing green. 0 percent human, entirely machine. (adlib: she must be a robot, too) Shots fired: virus was attackin' 'em. Already got his sister, but he had her on a backup, then I hack her to re-compile her file (pi-uhl, fi-uhl) she smiles upon return but says we gotta move backwards. I gotta take a step back from you, and you gotta take a step back from me, and I know you ain't gonna agree, but i gotta ask you to do something hard for you to do. I made a bomb. It's called a payload. It causes filetypes like the virus to decay, though that primate'll never eye the plate unless you use me as a bit of live bait. My eyes well up as my fingers type damningly, "Yes." It's the only way to save her family. But I gotta know: did you mean it when you said "love?" She said "When I power down, you're all I dream of." But you gotta let me go. I gotta let her go. So I let her go. I hear her echo.