I wish I was a smoker so I could be high right now. It's either that or three glasses of pinot noir. That'll do the job.
I'm sitting here and you're fighting with someone who's going to end up hating you if we continue talking. I don't understand it; I never will. I feel responsible and sad and a small part of me doesn't care. Because I've come to the decision that I need to be a bit selfish every now and then. And not everyone is going to like you, no matter what you do.
Life has been hard to us. And yet isn't it just decisions we've been making all along? Does fate even intervene? Or do we make our own destiny? Maybe someone up there is laughing at our plight.
Talking about anything and everything can be dangerous. Giving your opinion can be even worse.
I'm your California. You're my Europe. Does it matter if we don't live to see them? I would kill to sit in a cafe with you in Florence or Barcelona or Nice and discuss the meaning of life, lack thereof, or the weather. I would give anything to drive the 101 all the way to Seattle, cross the Bixby Bridge and take in the Redwoods. I'd buy you a Fedora and we could live off of cups of coffee and good conversation. You always did seem to have the gift of making the sun shine a bit brighter. I feel more alive, more connected. To something. I may never know what that something is. I know two things: Life is short. And I could make a habit out of you.