I write you a book every morning, wondering why.
Here in the moment when I try to solve the equations, and work the math, I'm left with a remainder of 5.
You cannot see anything of what has passed before me, and even if you read about it, you haven't been here.
I cannot tell you where this leads, because you wouldn't believe me, or I would explain it incorrectly so that we would have one of those silly misunderstandings. You know what I would have meant had you watched my lips form the words, but only the audio is not enough.
I'm telling you in complex terms, with the most difficult definitions that we can't wait to see where this goes. Because there will not be a moment where you wake up, look at a piece of canvas colored purple, and think, God, I love this girl. You will not be reading a story about my mundane life and think, I don't want to live without her any more. During a telephone conversation, you're not going to slip and say it, or try to back track and figure out the moment the light switch was flipped to on.
And though it makes me sad, that I'm resigned to such a limiting medium, it's the only way I have to remind you of what life would be like.
Good Night.
Bebe, I can't get warm again.