""Why don't you ever say the things that you want to say?" He asked me quietly.

"People just don't understand. Or perhaps I just don't understand myself enough. There are too many stories inside me. It feels as if I am the Milky Way, in the most vast sense, and the stories inside me are stars that burst sporadically whenever I see something that I can fall in love with. And I fall in love with too many things. So I fill myself up with things around me, I find stories within the rustle of leaves on summer nights, I find stories within young children's eyes as they see candy shops, and I find stories in the raindrops that land on the tip of my nose. The world is filled with stories, you see, and if I really, truly, had to understand one thing about myself, it would be that if I really was the Milky Way, I would hope that those stories could come to life and make the world a wonderful place that's filled with stardust."

The rain pattered on the window softly, and he slid the pen towards me.

"Then write them. They're all waiting to be told.""

*~j.c~*