That's what you are. And I can't articulate, because I'm not used to these feelings. I am not used to dragging out such light affections.

My work has been a treatment: for a sickness in my veins I'm desperate to abscond, because perhaps as ink the sad can haunt a jail whose bars are not my ribcage.

I have never used my skill to try and imprison a smile.

How could I anyway, bind with irony the freeing feeling that you give me? Release the helium that you are, and expect it to behave? No paper dares to catch you. No letter, no camera. It is a fundamental conflict between mediums: the joy of limitlessness against the object or pen loyal to the finite, captured world.

Perhaps it would be different, had you installed lesser gusto in me. As it stands, my discipline fell with a vow to seek life without constraint. This year I have been learning; I have been more open, I have been happier.

And with you, I feel infinite.