It's been nearly a week.
It's funny that when I have a life, as rare as that is, and when you have a life, we barely talk. Or, rather, it's not funny, it's not even odd. Odd would be that I miss you.
And when I talk about you, because I'm not talking to you, it makes you way more real than I would ever think possible. It concretes part of the invisible things, and kind of makes me feel foolish.
I have this feeling that big things will happen tomorrow. Maybe not big, when you look at them from 900 miles away, but big when you look at them from here.
You know how you always want someone to figure out what you need? If you tell them, it ruins it and then it means so much less, if it means anything at all. So that's why I can never say, because I want you to give it to me. Because you know.
Good Night.