“De Artist”
We do not dream anymore. I spoke to a woman recently. We were born in neighboring hospital beds. We re-met when I was six years old. I loved her since then. She was a teacher. I am now able to tell her how I love her. I once read her a section of my autobiography, and that lady just cried to know that someone loved her like that. I am talking about how she, as an object of my primal affection, became a signal for me in life that lit a light on the objects of my affection.