I dream of you, whom I have not yet met. Like the poem says, “somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond”: I have that one memorized, if you wanted to know. I always imagined it was possible; and it could be happening to me, right now, though even though I am putting the idea on paper right now, I really can’t believe that life could be so miraculous. Truly, it was accurate of us when He said of these our hearts, “Ye of little faith”. But it must happen, don’t you think? Why the stories persist of that thing called, “magic” — wouldn’t the notion have evolved out of us if it never brought to fruit? If I step into the mere concept, there is the sudden opposite of fear, the feeling of dauntless invulnerability… or almost. It couldn’t be true, could it, really? Or is love like that? Like all the ideas I have of it: to forget them all?