I want to take your 87 year old face between my hands. I want to smell your skin, look into your eyes so close that our lashes catch on each other making a sound like a dropped cinnamon stick. I want to be with you and also to be you. You have come to my rescue a dozen times. When I am unsettled your words calm me. When I am off course you open a new channel and tow me into it. We fit together like the most suited of lovers. Your dialogue fills the spaces where my conversation fails me. Your matter of fact outlines slip neatly into the curve of my descriptions. We make good sex together. We should have met. I have met you on the page but you have never read me.
You are 87 years old.
I want to become you, slowly. I want to surpass you, isn't that what the next generation is for? I only have 44 years to improve my craft.
James Salter, wait for me.