I write novels in my head at night, under the cloak of a midnight darkness that pushes me to believe I'd be better suited to a philosophy major. I wonder whether I'd be happier barefoot on an island somewhere, or whether this fast paced city life is where I'm meant to be. I wonder where I'll be ten years from now; and if where I grew up will make any difference, or if it was all always leading to the same place.
I wonder if this is where I'll meet you, and if you'd be someone different if I were that barefoot girl on an island somewhere. Would fate have still brought us together somehow, or would you be a barefoot boy on that same island?
But by the next day, the hazy early morning light has erased the words I meant to write down - another midnight letter to a "you" I'm not sure I'll ever meet.