You see a journal page torn from an old book, part of the date has been wet and is now smudged beyond recognition. The writing is neat and dutifully written in beautiful calligraphy.

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She's beautiful. With a porcelain face, skin that looks to be so soft to the touch (though I dare not), and hair that rivals the clouds of dawn. She's neither too short nor too tall, her height is perfect and would be no matter the number. She has eyes that shine with glittering diamonds and seems to bore directly into my very soul. A smile, or frown, of which I can not seem to tear away from my sight. From her seems to seep a radiance and flow of such beauty that I can not compare. It simply is as fate had it made to be. And never have I seen or heard or even read of such beauty. I don't speak of simply her outer beauty, though I know not of her personality truly. Though I find myself yearning to learn every single thing possible about her. Her favorite color, drink, food, and book; anything really. Her most preferred flower, or whether she is allergic and can't touch such parts of nature. Her every dislike and hate. Even if I myself am included, the  so be it. She is the most gorgeous, beautiful, magnificent being I have ever come across. And I hope so strongly as I have never fathomed that I would be possible of such feeling that she would at the very least give me but a moment of her time to be in her presence. Though I far not ask for even that. For I do not think she would even consider giving me the time of day. Why would she? To her I am no one and nothing.
Is this love? Or even merely attraction? I honestly don't know. I've never felt such as this before. It has never in all my days so much as crossed my mind.
But what else could it be?
I wish I knew. . . . .

Barnabas,      May 12, 19-------