I don't know anything about you. I see you everyday, through the pages of my journals, in the photographs that you so hated to take but took anyway. I don't know how you are, where are you. I don't know how this happened, this thing that makes me go back to you like the very death we are so desperately trying to avoid but have to face up to, anyway. I don't know what's the first thought that runs through your mind when you get up in the morning, and open your window to the world.
I don't know whether you are happy or dead inside. Have I loved you enough?