I don’t know where last relationships end and where new ones begin. Of course I understand the dates and times are the indication of literality, but mentally I do not know. I don’t know when I am supposed to be applying old lessons to new experiences—when I am supposed to separate previous mistakes from bleeding into new shortcomings. Somehow I feel as if these fears resonate as chapters in a book. When you begin a book, you may have the preface that introduces some ground to give you a sense of familiarity of what to expect. The odd thing about the beginning of a book is that there is no real context about the chapter you are about to read on in previous pages. The preface might as well just be words that you will go on to repeat to yourself again later in the book and in greater chapters, but they will be more spread-out and not compiled in what was supposed to give you directions and information simultaneously. The preface should also encourage you to continue reading, so maybe a new relationship, in the beginning, is supposed to be a nudge in the direction of new chapters you haven’t read yet. Pages that you haven’t experienced yet; and curiosities you won’t be able to identify as questions until you ask them. Translation of these chapters following the preface may have you forget all about your introduction of the book entirely. It was supposed to merely be an introduction, anyhow, and the entire point of the preface was to give you familiar context to work with. But, as you go on and continue reading and further explore the chapters—a new ground is created and the preface, you knew, is now spread-out into an entire story that was more interesting than the introduction itself. Ironically, the only thing usually before the preface in a book is who it is dedicated to, by the author. I guess the new challenge is deciphering if you are going to write this book—this relationship—and be the author, or if your previous mistakes and shortcomings are going to be what it is dedicated to.