with fate as malleable as clay

Yesterday, I almost wrote you a letter. About what I was surrounded by, and felt so disconnected from. How I don't think I will ever. How can it possibly come to me? Where would I find it? But that I hope that sometime in the future I will. How that idealist bit in me will hope forever.

That maybe it isn't time yet and when the time comes - and it will come - it will be perfect; with music that burns a slow path through my veins, better than any alcoholic rush you describe, and words uttered with bursts of warm breath that will be better than all kinds of french kisses.

It was going to be a long, pouring-out-angst-and-woe kinda letter, with a little funny thrown in for good measure. I knew you wouldn't have minded. I thought, you know, so it's okay.

Now I feel like I have nowhere to go. It's not your fault.

Just goes to show how assumptions make me a donkey.