For some time ago, at the annual terrifying coffee we drink silently together, something extraordinary happend. A few words were uttered, and it all changed. The exstasy of finally being free was overwhelming, but as it slowly took off the memory of a yellow dream lingered, and I realised that I was going to miss them. The person will be in my life as long as they want to, but I will never again dream of jumping up and down on a big white bed, in front of white window, in a white room, in a warm tinted atmosphere. Never again will I dream the kind which used to be my favorite, the kind that is warm, soft and yellow.
For the first time in months I felt like writing something beautiful, and it seemed only apropriate to pick a subject as truly beautiful as this one. Do not fear that I am revealing myself more than I am aware of, Lover has no cause for jeaulousy in this matter (or any matter), and part of what makes this person so incerdibly beautiful is that they would never think that this could have been written about them. Nevertheless, everything in this text is absolutely true, I really do know someone this annoyingly beautiful, and I guess this was written for me to write something fairly personal for a change (though not too private) and to show my appriciation for two of the more exquisite things in life, beauty (which is found, even by me, in more than just aestethics) and misery.