tunneling and fluage, what do they have to do with each other you asked me. you always ask me so much, so very much. so very precious you are to me.
i told you some months ago, it could have been before i went to your house last time, or was it last summer? what i told you was that i had no clue how i was going to survive the months ahead. i was right, i could not have imagined any of the outcomes of the last few months, like i could not have imagined that all this time you would continue to be inspiration and a source of well-being.
you, who are you? i still want to know.
you know by now that i am not the redhead with whom you flirted one summer. i know that you are not that crusty macho who seems so rough. to me you are the one who took the dirty dishes from my hands and carried them to the kitchen. we seem to not be whom we appear, and yet we are always ourselves. writing to you, my sole reader, is one of the greatest pleasures on this paradise of mine. you listen. i do not know if you understand, and that does not really matter to me.
i need to write, and i need you as my muse.
