Like finding an old book in my library, lovingly worn, sturdy from age, carefully hidden, I found you. In the way that the true classics are cherished by (and in a nondescript way manage to change) its readers I've been gathering my fill through summaries and snippets of your character from off-hand sources. Somehow, I've put off diving into your pages. I don't know what held me back, if it was disbelief in finding something so ideal, or in putting-off for the sake of convenience. But your critics were kind and favorable, expressed in the strange glow they wear from making your acquaintance. I envied them.
And it was well I did, as I realized while leafing through you, your varied opinions, your inexhaustible interest, those smart quips that filter through your easy smile. It is though with some sharp pangs of regret, regret for lost time and opportunities. Like paper-cuts over and over, as I experience more of you, I am reminded how fleeting tonight will be.
I'm leaving after all, and where I'm going you cannot follow, choosing not to leave behind the musty, familiar tomes of your own library. This is your happiness, and I am but barely a day's observer and hardly one to judge.
But there is hope yet: a gentle truth that I've at least started, been introduced, and perhaps have been permitted to be a footnote in that noble story you would call your life.
Great books are books that teach us familiar lessons, you feel like an old soul, hearty with experience. I hope to read more of you, and grow accustomed to your delicate cadence and benevolent composition. I'll gently leaf through your every chapter, join you in your hero's journey. And maybe then, instead of drawing blood, every chapter will end with the gentle kiss of your endless script against my skin.
I look forward to your every crazy tale. Call it vicarious, or an act so superfluous. But just keep writing.
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