I really shouldn't allow myself to get hope­ful any­more. After all, it's been a fuck­ing year. And it's not fair to allow myself to keep feel­ing that way. There's no way in hell that it can be healthy… As much as I don't want to admit it, I want her…perhaps now more than ever…and it's all I can do to believe that this is going to end up good some­how. God…there are so many things I want to be able to tell her…things that I've told her before, yes, but… would they have new mean­ing now? Prob­a­bly not. Would it accom­plish any­thing for mefor us? Maybe, but prob­a­bly not.

So I sit here, at one thirty in the a.m. think­ing about her, about a life that I would like to have with her, a life where noth­ing mat­ters but us, a life that may never hap­pen. No, you shouldn't cry. Haven't you cried enough over the past year? It's sense­less, you fool. Stop it. You'd be crazy to keep try­ing. And yet you feel you should keep try­ing? For what, her? She's two thou­sand miles away. Maybe she cares, maybe not. And you're still here. And here you'll remain…until you do some­thing about it…

God, I love her so much.…