Oh jeez.
I know I should ignore the ifs, whys, wheres, hows, whats, and just keeping writing the words down. But I want to KNOW and I want to know NOW.
I'm sitting on my bed in a over-sized shirt and underwear, reveling in an empty house, listening to Debussy. I'm typing words and wanting to call it writing. The words could maybe be a story, an empty story full of hot air and worthless platitudes. It could mean little to me in the end, and even less to her.
But. But.
It could be a tempestuous tale, wroth with significance and tears and smiles.
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