I think of love, and I think of you—my wits are not about me, and I am dying of exhaustion, but I need to get some words out, and what better way to get this done than talk about the only thing that is on my mind. I do not know if you noticed the other day when I held you in the morning and you fell asleep in my arms. Not that this is new, and not that this shall change, but I lay there, my eyes wide open, and I decided that the time could pass and I could lie there forever, and to hell with all the things that would not get done, and I realised I was not going to move an inch, and I would let the sun wake us up. I closed my eyes and slept again. It was a wonderful morning. And then, I woke up and made myself a cup of coffee and soaked your chia seeds in the mug and waited for you to wake. Not that this is new, and not that this shall change.
I sit here at this desk at half past eleven, and I think of love, and I think of you—my wits are not about me, and I am dying of exhaustion, and I might just sleep here if I were to stay any longer. And that is beyond reproach; that is unacceptable. And so, I must try and finish this piece, and I must get into bed. I think of love, and I realise it is this: to be alone and want you and to be with you and want you all the same. To hell with all else. To hell with the world.