I heard about a poet who just spotted a woman and professed his love for her. Not in a real way, no: through a poem. Think of how much he fancied over the years that did not really exist. The lost one he never knew. The pure speculation that inspired so many of the words that some of us now take to heart. I’ve succumbed to world building too. Most bright places are not mine. They are attempts to fool the brain and left for others to speculate, if anyone ever speculated on my words. But I don’t doubt my loves. Oh sure, there’s a fear to admit them, to say anything on it, but those are real. They’re not the foolish errand of a poet trying to create a few lines to fulfill the artistic mind. I believe them with some sense of reason.