dredging myself to look for desire, the only one i can find is the craving for sleep. but when i sleep i dream of writing, and when i write i dream of you.
i've so often accused you in (semi) jest of being a god, just because of the way my life arranges itself around you. it's a strange and tricky sort of path i'm walking, one that twists and turns and conspires to stay under my feet no matter where i step. i know where it leads, and that it is not possible to go faster or slower or differently.