You exist in this world and your sheer impossibility is comfort. On this speck of dust, you move and shake me. If the potential to rearrange a hundred books is greater than there are atoms in the universe, how lucky are we that you find your way into my bed, that I kiss you while we talk to trees, that you love me and I love you? And no manner of oceans – little blue streaks on a teensy blue marble on the edge of tiny spinning cloud – can squelch us. In a world where you are possible, my love, nothing can go wrong for us.