Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but
because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.
May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.
Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.
Life is a disease: sexually transmitted, and invariably fatal.
People think dreams aren't real just because they aren't made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.
There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.
Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.
You're always you, and that don't change, and you're always changing, and there's nothing you can do about it.
Let us begin this letter, this prelude to an encounter, formally, as a declaration, in the old-fashioned way: I love you. You do not know me (although you have seen me, smiled at me). I know you (although not so well as I would like. I want to be there when your eyes flutter open in the morning, and you see me, and you smile. Surely this would be paradise enough?). So I do declare myself to you now, with pen set to paper. I declare it again: I love you.