Because I have to. I don't understand why this is happening to me -- why I had to lose my muse. We used to talk for hours; I told her all of my stories. And she told me hers. Maybe, in the end, she grew tired of my story-telling.
So now I shout these story fragments out into the wind, and wait for a reply that never arrives. All I hear now is my own echo. So my voice is growing weaker...
Who knows how or when this story will end? Not me.
Tonight, let me start again with this beautiful little story of two lovers, fragile and lonely. It is very romantic. Neither anticipated the other. They might have lived their lives out and never have met.
But they did. Then they lost each other. It's a sad story, tragic even. But it isn't over yet. I can't write its ending, because I don't know what it is.
Tomorrow, maybe I'll start all over once again, by writing about some of the special moments when I first realized I was falling in love with her. It was a season very much like this one, with warm summer nights, and the fog thoughtfully held itself hovering offshore, until the two of us could warm each other against its frightful assault.
But for now, I need to tend to my wounds, and my voice is slipping away from me. I can't hear myself because her silence is deafening...
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