I want to write an epic poem. Something fitting to your character. Not like the Iliad or Odyssey. Ok, like the Iliad or Odyssey. Something like One Hundred Years of Solitude. Something like the Qur’an. Or the Holy Bible. I want to write an epic for you. On golden leaf paper, written with a quill. That’s my dream. That’s my obsession. Something monolithic. Something so inspiring that before my death I am named one of the greatest writers ever. Yea, that’s my dream. But really I want to write it for you. One poem. The length of a library. I want that for you. Written in decades, even when my arthritis worsens, I want that for you. I want to write an epic poem. Something befitting your character, something matching your worth. I want to do this because I love you. Because I knew your greatness since birth.