We seem to send each other sets of monologues that never connect. You don't let them develop into conversations of meaningful intersection of thoughts or feelings. Just like shots in the dark, missing their targets, disconnecting lines that were drawn in the air.
I can't understand what would possibly be your reason to contact me this way. It doesn't make sense tome, I doubt you can make sense of it yourself. I am a sensible woman, you said so yourself. You must be a senseless man than.
Yet, last night I lay awake and thought a lovely love poem for you, in honour of the love I keep for you. I've forgotten most of it's lines, the one that remained is this:
You are the distant man I love.
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