Wow, I can`t believe I said that.

Because the truth is, I want to spend late nights hearing you breathe on the other end. I want to talk about silly things like hairfall, o feeling like your life depends on whether or not you sht at that second. I want to tell you about my days, and how failing freaks me out, how stupid I can get and how I regularly fall on my feet. I want to know about your days, too. I want to know your favorite everything and your hatest anything. Tell me you eat sushi with condensed milk, or superstitiously hop on one foot three times before you sleep

Because the truth is, everytime I see pictures of the world and see how life is so beautiful, I think of exploring every part of it with you. I want to travel the world by foot and paddle, dance on the top of pyramids, roll down the rice terraces, shake hands with Greek strangers, take a prostitute out in the light and make her genuinely happy, pretend to be vampires in the Romanian night, be poor and starving artists in Chicago, sleep in subways with lights flickering like sick hallways of dilapidated hospital buildings. Let’s draw ourselves with chalk on the streets where children play hopscotch. Let’s draw ourselves on the sand, water back and forth, back and forth. Let’s draw ourselves in the clouds, and we’d pretened that we see shapes that aren’t really there

Because the truth is, life isn’t about coloring within the lines. It’s about making this one big mess, spilling paint and cake icing all over and beyond the pages.

Because the truth is, I can’t think of making this chaotic masterpiece without anyone else but you.