September 28 2003

Trying to write what is felt is not an easy task anymore. Having been discouraged in so many different occasions by so many different people with only one thing in common: they do not write. They did not aspire ever to become writers.

Now I come as an open book to you … must I spill? I REALLY want to, but I wonder if that is ever going to be possible.

To put down, ink on paper, the happiness I feel when I'm with you, is doing it no justice at all.

What I feel for you is infinitely bigger and stronger than any feeling that could be evoked by the word alone, even in the best poem or song ever…

But I do try, I really do, to let you know what is inside, how deep my love runs, how profound thi...