Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes: but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place the mahogany box full of letters on her lap and say to her, “I was waiting for you.”
She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, read the letters one by one, and as she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the years — the days, the moments – that that man, before he even met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps, more simply, she will overturn the box and, astonished at that comical snowstorm of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, “You are mad.” And she will love him forever.

Alessandro Baricco