You wrote back to me. I didn't expect it. It had been two weeks. We'd gone so long writing and talking so often that I didn't know what to do without a reply. I found my pen tracing the last note I wrote. I quickly had more copies of the letter than I had ever hoped for.
You were careful with your careless words. I could see the real letter behind the things your wrote down. They baffled me. I read the letter so many times that your smell had been replaced by mine and your fingerprints had become my own. I didn't sleep for a week. I was trying so hard to make this letter perfect.
You're in Madrid. The plane ticket sits in my lap at this moment, constantly attracting my eye. I don't know what to think. I've cautiously calculated where the tickets would lead. No option lead me where I want to be.
I think I'll catch the plane in ten days time. I don't know how it will be, though. You were so vague in so many things. You did not say that you love me, nor did you reject me. You wrote a small note with one ticket to Madrid. "Suck the marrow out of life" -Thoreau. I want more. The obvious answer is that you want me to let myself live, but I have let myself live. You said so much more. I will catch the plane in ten days, but instead of sending you this, I will hand it to you. You shall get exactly what you gave me. A quote. I will see you soon. Ya voy.

"We travel just to travel" -Motor Cycle Diaries.