The nightingale tells his fairytale of paradise where roses grew

From time to time, I actually ask myself what exactly it is I am doing here. Writing hate mail, some may say. Composing love letters, others may argue. Popular opinion would probably be that I am simply beating my head against an imaginary wall. To my discerning eye, as it skims the pages and hones in on the way each entry ends like some bleak fable, this incomprehensible chronicle resembles more of an imitation of Aesop or the Brothers Grimm.

And I could be napping right now. The story of my life starts with "I could be ___ right now." The more interesting matter is what the story ends with, but I prefer to let that remain a mystery for at least a little while longer.

Reality is, the nap's chances are good on any given day, but I have seized several opportunities to take siestas over the past week, and this marks my first opportunity to take a trip to these anxiously waiting plastic keys. I fear I will leave them sorely disappointed with my caresses today. I more strongly fear that it will not be an isolated incident.

Days are numbered, possibilities are few, chances are slim, and probability is low, but somehow we need to keep our spirits high. How far can faith carry a man and woman? Should we measure the distance in miles or minutes?

Seventeen fucking years. More than six thousand days. Going on nine million minutes. More milliseconds than I could be reasonably expected to count, and more nanoseconds than maybe even Rain Man could reasonably be expected to count. All this shared history... it has not been pretty, but you better believe I still want every ugly inch of you.