Let me paint you a picture of the most beautiful man I know.
He was sunshine in the worst way possible and he never knew when to quit, never knew when to stop and think it through. When he did do something right, it was always prefaced with something much more wrong and he undoubtedly despised himself for it.
But it wasn't in his nature to show them what was wrong, oh no. Rain, shine, or total desolation, his smile was plastered on his face as a beacon of courage and unfathomable insecurity.
Nothing could knock him down, except the slightest breeze in the wrong direction. His paper facade slowly torn away and replaced, layers and layers thick. If you knew him, you didn't. If you wanted to, you couldn't. I don't think he even knew the person he was underneath his armor.
So when the tower came tumbling down, I'm not sure anyone was expecting it to fall in my direction. They all told me it wasn't worth my time to try and clean up his mess, and I almost believed them. I really did.
And as I look at him now, napping ten feet away, red-rimmed glasses skewed across his face and his hair an untamable mess, I know for certain that if you put me through it all again I would not hesitate in the slightest.
So I write this story for you, Alfred. You are my symphony.
Love, Roderich