I will not be able to borrow your voice anymore, it seems. You will tell me you have a life; you will not be able to call. But then I will ask you this: What child is a child if he loves not stars for not every star falls on his lap? Even after this letter is finished; after my watch, like me, dies of exhaustion from running in circles in vain; after I see my world in ruins and not have the strength to build it back; after I realise that, this winter, every word I speak will disintegrate into this Wichitan fog and every castle I build, fall from the air. Even after I have stopped loving you; I will start loving you all over again.