There were days in the storm , when the wind was poetically forceful in a hurricane of sand and dust and I could not see. I just put my headphones on and silenced the white noise with guitars and drums pulsing through the familiar route of my ears to the map of my heart, my very essence. At times I just sat down, right there in the eye of the fucking looseness surrounding me and then, I would hear your name. It will be in the rhythm of a song, in a guitar solo, in the violence of the drums and even though your name was never said in its full validity, I heard it. I still hear it and I fucking love it.

And then, as I started to write again.. here, on paper, on the clouds, in my head, on my heart, on my body… you read the map. You traced the lines with your fingertips and you are the only one, you find your way to the most sacred spaces and places within this time and place. You never tell me where we are going next, you just take me there. You call me to the fire, barefoot. You pull me into the current of an angry ocean without a wetsuit, you throw me out a fucking plane, hand attached to mine and … I fucking love it.

And yet, in that fire, in that ocean and it that endless sky, you are there. You let me feel the heat of the fire, but never let me burn. You make me drift in that ocean, but you do not let me drown and you let me fall, but you always catch me. And yeah, I fucking love it.

You whisper in dreams how and when and where. You aren’t there when I wake up in the morning and yet, you are so there. In a crowd of faces, you are there, biding your time to come to me. I fucking love this adventure of when where what.

You are fucking loco. You are an echo of all the best songs ever written. You are wild and yet, so fucking stable. You are funny and serious. You are loyal beyond measurements of this world. And god, you are fucking beautiful.

And I, I fucking love it.