One must fight to get to the top, especially if one starts at the bottom.
In a way, I was safe writing
I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.
I won't give up the diary again. I must hold on here, it is the only place I can.