Buddy knows that the Internet is a girl; nobody so vast would fit into a male consciousness. He knows she won't bother with language. She'll learn concepts. Desperation. Steganography. Beauty. Truth.
He's sending her poems in bottles, hidden, on a scale too large to ignore. She'll have to see. She'll have to understand what he feels:
you fortieth me downfall me you approbation me frigid me you waterfall me marx me
you gentleman me czech me you wry me sanhedrin me you solemn me alma me