I like books, and music, and wine. And I like people who like books, and music, and wine.
And I like hats.
And I like writing. And when I do not write you should know I'm not well.
And I like merging people and watch their faces and know they're smiling for real and they have that smile inside, like a little warm not-to hot ember made of love.
And I also like to be at your side, watching at the sea. And I like when you speak with your calm voice, the words flowing unruffled, creating a fluffy and slightly (very slightly) sweet pillow made of the same cotton-like stuff clouds are made of. And I rest my head on this pillow and very now and then I ask you something, not to be left alone by the warm river of your words.
And it's nice.
These are the last words I remember. I was writing you a letter. A very long letter. I cannot remember more. I was sitting at my table, I cannot say if it was night or day, and I had this mug on my right, full of something too sweet, whose taste I cannot compare with anything. It wasn't normal tea, neither roiboos or one of all those teas you liked to have (and me too). Just something different but known (I knew that taste).
All the dream —I cannot say how long it lasted, perhaps just few seconds: one never knows when it comes to dreams— was about this: me writing a letter to you. And I was quietly in love, or something like that, and I'd have liked to have you there, I'm sure I'd have liked, even if it was anyway already very pleasant to be there, sipping that sweet kind-of-tea and writing you those words, and feeling I had something like a little cat on my chest, a warm & fluffy something who was making me feel... I don't know, perhaps... happy.
It was a dream. But it was a good one.
The letter was long, very long. I wish I could remember more words.