So what would do you think if I told you that I had a crush on an artist for 50 years or more? Well, it’s true. Kind of. There’s something about the shape of him that makes me unable to look into his eyes for any extended period of time. Luckily, I only see him every 20 years or so. I find him so devastatingly handsome that I doubt any conversation I’ve had with him has made sense or at least I don’t remember it. It’s not just the way he looks, unfortunately, or I could call myself frivolous, but it’s his absolute genius about understanding human beings and the dark side of life. I know this sounds nonsensical and it’s kind of crazy to think that I could lean into the warmth of this man but I want to and perhaps on my deathbed there he will be reclined next to me, his fingers caressing my left cheek bone, and I, leaning into the warmth of his arm and the feel of his hips and the strength of his hair say to him why did it take us so long? At that point it won’t matter to me if he’s real or imaginary because I’ll be dying and anything I want to imagine will be right there in technicolor next to me. That’s the only good thing about dying: you can produce and imagine something so clearly from this life into whatever you want to happen next. I would be happy to drift on into the next life with my hand in the hair of this man. Just a handful of strength, just a touch, it doesn’t really matter to me anymore if we have a conversation because I really don’t want to know what the outcome would be in reality.I have to admit despite so much therapy I really prefer fantasy. I find fantasy infinitely more satisfying.