I fell in love with him because of his letters. They came from London, Geneva, Banff, Milan, Paris, everywhere he worked as an artist. They were like warm, intimate conversations. For my letters, I'd do things, go to places, just to describe them to him. I would write so as to make him feel he was beside me. We both worked to pull something down out of the ether, something impossible for us, which was the overcoming of distance. I never sat there unable to think of what to write. I heard sentences in my head, which I knew would make him smile. I reached in and made words strain towards the Corporeal, it was a sign of my faith.