Sharing my work with anyone besides my mother is a scary thing for me. Especially with someone like you. But you asked, and i protested, and you pleaded, and i read to you. I tried to read to you with a voice as confident and clear as i could but these feelings that i've put on paper are fragile things, they deserve quiet and slow. You deserve quiet and slow, orange and yellow, warmth and touch. You are a piece of work yourself, putting mine to shame. You sit there and you listen with your mouth shut yet you're speaking volumes. You are something beautiful who deserves beautiful words and i can try to give them to you. But nothing i write could ever encompass all that you are. I will still try. I will write, and i will read to you. Quiet and slow, in orange and yellow, with warmth and touch.