I've been willing to write this for a while, but you know how writing goes: first you wait for that elusive inspiration character to come by, then you beguile him with tea and apple pie, steal his handkerchief and set him free, just to end up writing something you never expected yourself to write, or hating what you've written to such an extent that it feels like you've offended the Universe by the mere act of touching the keys. Some time is then spent actively hating yourself, waiting for a punishment, with which the Universe never seems to hurry, either because it doesn't care enough, or because it's all-forgiving, or maybe you're just not exactly at the top of its agenda - who am I to know, and even if I knew, to tell you? At any rate, the probability of being excused by you is infinitely higher, therefore I beg your pardon, and if I'm granted that I will assume the Universe follows your noble example.
I had this one idea, a silver thread with which I thought I'll knit something pretty for you - a dreamcatcher or a scarf, a pair of mittens - would you wear them? - but I'm afraid it's been too long and I've lost it. Let me open the windows and let fresh air in - it helps you breathe, doesn't it? Take a sit, there, I like the way it lits up your profile. Your eyes are still grey, your face beautiful and narrow, and, God, I wish I could talk to you right now, but I don't have anything to say - have I ever had anything to say? You stare at me calmly, with the unmistakable manner of a true Englishman, knowing what's for breakfast, planning the next step, climbing a roof - for if life is meaningless, you'd rather have it meaningless with a view, which on its own tends to provide a sense of purpose.
You walk into the kitchen where your mum is making dinner. Isn't she beautiful? She is akin to that earthly beauty of the sound that the cutlery makes when it meets the crockery, and the plants when they grow, and the bread when it rises in the hot oven, and the hearty stew when it bubbles over, and the cookie tins when they meet each other on top of the kitchen cupboards - oh, life - they whisper, mumble, creak, ding - balance, oh, joy, life and balance and joy! I was walking the streets the other day and I saw the word "joy" glowing in silver letters from an entrance hall of a mossy house through the open door, and it felt like an order impossible to disobey. I resigned gladly and I thought: this is what I need. The word "joy" facing me from every face I'm facing. Having to deal with no other face but your own makes it easier to manage, but doesn't lead anywhere nice.
I'm afraid I can't finish this, which would only be fair and representative of me: I never go further than three paragraphs of text, and if I do, I usually regret it.