They say every story that starts off talking about the weather is a bad story. So I had to write that line before telling you how cold it gets in this wharves when the sea wind blows its way into the mainland. Good luck I have a scarf, a good jacket and I don't give a damn.
I had a dream last night. I dreamed of a friend. He had come a long way back from a journey. He had a letter in his hand.
He said, "I know last time I failed you, but now I bring you this." And he handed me a hand-written letter.
There was no envelop, so I just unfolded the paper. There was a heart drawn with a pencil. And an explanation.
"It took me a long time to write this because..."
I knew its content, it was the explanation of all things left unsaid. I stopped reading. I was dreaming. And I decided to wake up.
I woke up in my bed. And it was a shame, for I failed to grasp that the letter was not from her, but from myself. Now I'll never now what I was thinking. I think I read I love you, but I don't recall, it was a dream. It's so hard to chase one's dreams when we can't remember them.
I'm still here. Letterless. I'll profit from sorrow. After all, no one's ever made a masterpiece out of happiness, it's hard enough to be happy to also ask to be a brilliant writer.