Days flow by, being passed over carelessly. Alarm clock, bathroom, car. Buying breakfast, drinking tea, working, attending meetings, lunching, working again. Usually till late. Having or buying dinner on the way back. Book, Internet, sometime sports. And insomnia.
Few things, very few things are happening. What really counts? Donating frequent flyer miles to charity? Hardly. Calls to New Zealand? Perhaps. Writing a love letter? Who knows?
I sent one today anyway, thoughtlessly ignoring it may sound cheesy. Being pathetic is the act of passion. It's been over two years and I still keep wondering — may this be love?
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