It just hit me: a large part of the reason I love [living with] Ethan is that, most any time I get into one of those nostalgic-open-expressive-personal-revealing-vulnerable moods and need to talk, he’s there and even interested.
Most any time. Now it’s quiet for several more hours, and I am alone and afire, reading. Sentences come with difficulty, more fragmented outbursts. Maybe they’ll coalesce into another blog entry, or maybe not.
There’s nothing, nothing like conversation.
