Jun. 08, 2003 - 11:35 p.m.
The very walls are drenched with the scent of you. This room pulses in time with your heart. I feel as if I have somehow violated your private sanctuary. So much of you is present here.
I peer around your collections, afraid to touch something for fear of what you might say, fearing you will somehow notice my intrusion into your sacred temple.
My curiosity, however, will not let me leave until I have somehow ferreted out all your secrets. I boldly run my hands across the back of your chair, knowing that your head rests here from time to time.
And I burn for more. I need to know what thoughts trip through your head as it rests against this leather. What motivates you to put pen to paper? I see the pen casually lying across your desk, but no sign of intimate journal.
Looking over my shoulder quickly in reflex, I flip through your music collection hoping for more insight. Your tastes are even more eclectic than mine.
A small noise and I run out of the room, but the small knowledge is mine to keep, and I will eventually find what makes you tick.
