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I could write what I want. I could describe in detail all the fantastic futures contrived in my head. Of paths not yet travelled with you, I could fill volumes. All the wonderful nights to be spent in your arms, I could relate so exquisitely that readers would weep. Yet to do so would require immersion in fantasy, and in doing so I could negate the possibility of its ever becoming reality. Perhaps that's debatable. One never really knows what the future holds. But consider: in living out a fantasy, I experience a life that does not exist, and though I am aware of its false nature, I become attached to it nonetheless. Therefore as a writer, I must be ever mindful of my writing. What good is a love story if it never really happens?