I was sitting on the bus today on my way to St Pancras. Mulling over my acts of idiocy. But I have to say. You didn’t come up. You found your way into my heart and managed to glue together the broken pieces of a harsh childhood, traumatic teen years, and there’s no way I’d ever be angry at you. Because you’re my sanctuary. Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. You made quite an impression. So much so that I will be reading a book. A book I’m heavily engrossed in. Whilst sitting in a carriage. On a train shuttling through the English countryside. The sun is setting. I want to tell you about how much I love this book. How the countryside looks so idyllic in the sunset. How it reminds me of camping. How much I want to go camping with you. Is it pathetic? I don’t think so. I’m really past that stage now. Maybe my pride fell months ago. For instance, I don’t mind saying you’re an absolute darling. And that you often visit my dreams and sometimes those dreams seem so vivid that my dreams become reality. I wake up and lie in bed. Processing how real it felt. How real your face looked. It was actually so beautiful. I do love you. My senses tell me I’ve said too much but I really haven’t. I’ve just said what I’m thinking. Not even a quarter of what I’m thinking. So, no, you weren’t an act of idiocy. And if the universe decides you were an act of folly, you’d be my best one.