Dear Stranger

Yesterday the day was grey and I cried.
But it was sunny.
It was sunny and grey.
I walked around the river, thinking about you, stranger.
You exist somewhere, but I still can't reach you.
I feel your presence, but I don't know who you are.
I imagine your hair and your hands, the way you move and how you wake up.
You are beyond me, but in me.
I write these words to try to get closer to you.
As I write here, in the dark and hidden, I remember the words of my favorite author, Patrick Modiano: "For him, writing was also sending signals, like a lighthouse, or sending messages in Morse code to certain people whose destinies he ignored."
Except, unlike him, I don't know who you are, dear stranger.
Will I ever find you?
I have no way of knowing, so I'm still here weaving stories, inventions, daydreams.
One day.
One more day.
And who knows?