Dear Dark-Haired Girl,

Writing to you seems absurd. You are fantasy. You are dream. You are fleeting. I wonder if some day you and I shall meet to talk. Though I know not what we would speak about. I would ask who you are and why you appeared to me. Many pragmatic and dramatic things come from silence. Introspection for one, the wordless dialogue springs forth to was over change and reason.
Why do you appear to me?? Who are you and should I fear?? All my life you have seen fit to reveal yourself in small ways. And always through the window of dreams.
So strange is this reflection. For you are a whisper and a ghost. And yet I wanted to write to you. I'm not sure you would be that which I expect, but I find myself curtailing my writing in small ways to fit the addressee. But you, I know nothing of you and so it is easier.
And you have not a name...

[unfinished]

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