It’s easy to fall in love with a writer, you know. They remember things, and isn’t that all you have ever wanted? For someone to notice how hard you try to be that perfect daughter. Your father, who always wanted a son, expects nothing from you. You try so hard your feet begin to crack and every time you move, your bones feel the momentum. So you fall in love with a writer in hopes that perhaps in a twisted way, your father would see you as the son he always wanted. Writers are weird creatures. They seem to be fighting the most vocal and brutal war with themselves and you find yourself pulled to them because their chaos is beautiful. You think that in their haunted decrepit souls lies the most beautiful raindrop you have ever seen and it absolutely must be saved. Oh, you fall in love with a writer in vain hopes that you will live forever. You hope that the tradition of storytelling which begun with orators and now exists in print, the ancient art of weaving quilts of fortitude will live through you. You are a selfish being, after all.