A while back an old friend/lover wrote the following. I came across it, and later found that it was written just for me.>>>

i often wonder about you..

..and if what inspired you still inspires you. you turned your travels and adventures into words like fluids freezing into solid and by that same principal you always seemed to form the shape of whatever contains you. you were like a hero a to me and i like somewhat of a novice to the colours of life and i could not hold a candle to your love for cluttered rooms and large sheets of fabric woven with sunny days. this is not a letter of love yet a love of love to one of my favorite spirits that could never sit still. as time has taken its toll we are now no more than stories we can hardly remember and pictures that do not show our faces. but somehow you taught a fish how to swim.

so i wonder about you and where you are. i wonder if the sheer magnatude of the world and its bold displays of greens and blues still enchant you. do you still write sacred words to yourself on every notebook reminding you to keep your spirits bold and ever curious? are you somewhere happily? near or far?

and its in this mystery that i find some sort of happiness and smug sense that i do not really wonder anymore. in the same curious sensation that brought our traveling paths together we have forever vanished from each other's universe and i sincerely doubt we will ever cross again. i just want to know what became of you. i want to know if you still walk the world like i do forever seeking a lonlier path and forever seeking what you are affraid of. this is not a love letter but a love of love. it is not a letter of a fleeting love or a romance somehow meant to be but of a friend that i greatly respect.. one who has great respect for me.

i write this from 7200 miles away. but away from what? home? you once helped me to realize that home is where the heart is; burried deep inside of you, and in that sense i am home and will always be home as long as i remember who i am. happy, i am, and i write scribbled words into whatever form of paper i can scrounge at this rooftop so far away. this is where i go to say goodbye to the day and where i go to lift myself into the teeming sounds of istanbul below. and the question still bugs me.. do you still feel this? do you still quote Rumi to elder shop keepers? do you still draw on bathroom mirrors? or has the world gotten to you too like it has so many others? if so then maybe that is all that you are to me, a ghost of an inspiration who too has become chained to the world.

in that sense i am sad..

you really loved the world..