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Sunday, Jan. 18, 2004 - 12:03 p.m.

Who am I?

I do not know who I am. You do not know who I am. What I do know, though, is who you are, and that is why I write.

Let me repeat a French word - frisson - in the hope that I can explain myself. You give my heart a frisson every time I think of you. It is as if each word you have spoken to me in the past now forms a path, and the trail leads directly from your eyes to mine.

I must write to you. The words do not cease. You are the Earth and I am the Moon, and by the force you exert I am drawn closer to you. BUt we can never touch. The tears of the Moon are grey and black for this reason, and that is why it only dares show itself at night.

Will I touch you again? I do not know. If you think of me, your thoughts must be like a comet, which passes the earth before our eyes can see it properly in the sky. But you do not remember, and it wounds, and the few memories I have of us together pour salt into that wound.

I want to see you dance again. When we are speaking quietly I yearn to hear you laugh. When you brush against my shoulder, I wish you would stop so that I could hold you. You weigh more in my heart than the Titanic on the ocean. My only hope is that you never begin to sink and disappear.

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