Noone ever leaves me alone. I just want a little bit of private time to myself to write about these things.

Which is probably why I fantasise about being silent, just with you. Silent and safe, too. You seem so out of context, in this gaudy apartment complex.

See, I think you would seem out of context in a lot of places dear. Is it because of the age gap? Or maybe not. At a rave, certainly. You'd hate it. What if I wanted to dance around and listen to ridiculous songs at three am? Never particularly loud but even so.

Last night I worked out that I must be liked by you, or at least, you must think I am good at something, having wanted me there for the party night.

I liked to think of you snuggled up in bed at eleven, I like you. A disarming statement. I told you once, and you blushed (I could tell in the dark by that little giggle you gave) and said, oh, oh I'm scary too.

And maybe I'm out of context; all too brash and lacking in depth, and all too furtive. Too strange to myself.

Etiolated and bizarre.

You look soft and easy to hold, but inside you're hard and strong about what you believe if that makes sense. It does make sense. You're soft to those you like and to those you don't, the door comes down and you're the chatelaine, female Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster though you'd balk at being described in any form of warlike terms.

Chatelaine doesn't suit her as much as her real name. It's all wrong.

Anyone I adore has something of Cuchulain about them.