Your fortress, your four walls, are keeping me out, but I'm not so sure they're mine to climb. I want so desperately to be inside those walls now when before I would have sought to break them down. I don't mind that you keep to yourself, but it'd wonderful if our friendship was one of those secrets.

"To be worthy of walls," is a metaphor I'm sure I'll address in my magnum opus. But if I'm too publish my most beloved work after my death, it's your duty to outlive me. Can you do that?