.may twentieth. Struggling to recall your words: anything, everything up until this very moment of our lives. I want my writing to be a keeping of memories. I want to remember everything whether it's with fondness or with pain. I do not want to let anything go. I do not want any past moments to dissolve into a forgotten oblivion. I want to recall, some day, this conversation of not changing our childhoods, but discovering the childhood of another, perhaps an older relative, someone of a younger generation, or even of someone who lived hundreds of years ago whom we know absolutely nothing of. I want to remember this, should we find ourselves distanced and regretful, perhaps over harsh words, perhaps over circumstances beyond our control, that we would not have chosen any other path, fearing it would have led to something other than each other. I want, also, to keep this perfect image of you. This image of you that expands upon another cheerful dawn, you, this nineteenth century image of you, festooned with ribbons and your arms, lithe, cradling that violin, the two of us, somewhere near a river. Yet right now, seeing you, gazing before you in your peaceful sleep, you could not look more perfect. Lit by this solitary candle, you are my inspiration. Angelic, your thin gold halo wavering in this flickering light. You exhale, lost in dreams where I hope I may soon reside.