Je N'en connais pas la fin.

I won't be going 'round there after dark anymore.

I saw you in a black and white image the other day, the first time I ever saw your face. At first I thought the perfection was either an impossibility or perhaps my biased opinion. Perhaps my judgement was clouded by emotion. But on reflection, your perfection was indeed real, real enough to make me feel so incredibly far beneath you, as ridiculous as that sounds.

I looked at your hand and imagined holding it, I looked at your mouth and wondered what you would eventually say, I looked at your eyes and contemplated the impression you would have of me, asked myself if that was already written or even important.

Later on I sat in front of a blank page and took a long, deep breath while I contemplated the paradox of time versus needs. Time is something I thought I had in abundance, until I saw your face. Now, as I try to imagine fitting in everything I have to do for you, want to do for you, it has finally clicked that there isn't quite as much time as I could do with. But now the goals are, if not yet realised, finally real. As real as that black and white image.

Shudder.