I don't know what to say. My need for you--for this--becomes less and less. Maybe that's what happens when you actually have a best friend you can talk to every day; someone you can complain to, cry to, laugh with, play with, and those other givens in communication which you can't supply. Maybe the real difference is, when I write here now, I'm not secretly talking to anyone. Maybe the truth has become that, when I write here now, I'm really writing for my self.