It's remarkable how everything happens.

It's exactly how I imagined it to be--exactly. Yet it's nothing like it at all.

It's tenderness and tears. It's being alone, with the words in my mind and the words on paper and the words from the stereo.

It's thinking--thinking it would be so easy. It should be so easy.

So then, why doesn't it stop?

So this is what I do. Make a mixtape.

For me. For him. For any one.

For waking up today and thinking, maybe, it's all better. And that it has, even if by degrees.

For reading PostSecret and smiling. Because every week, why does it feel so right? Why does every secret look like its written for me?

For maybe, making this mixtape.

And maybe, leaving it for a stranger to find.

That sort of romanticism, sentimental, artistic thing I've always wanted to do.