He told me (in my dream, of course) that he loved my words. He said that he often had to go over them, again and again, over a course of a few days. That he studied and analyzed them, that he had felt their presence in his life long before I showed up and messed up his routine. He told me he was afraid that he'd never be able to get on a plane and go around the world. He feared he would never be able to learn the international language of love. The one I spoke to him, and the one he could not speak back.