We sat in the dark under covers and blankets reading tales of wizards and shadows that talked when the clock struck twelve. In the summer our kites would breeze past the bellies of the clouds and we swore we could feel the friction brushing onto our fingertips and making our hair rise with electricity. As we aged the ropes on our kites grew smaller and smaller until the only choice we had was to cut the kites free. They flew higher than they ever had and as I started to cry you held my hand for the first time. That was a new type of friction, a friction I knew I would be chasing the rest of my life.