Darling Rosalind:
My all, my everything, my wet and windy world, my solar
system – how are you?
A week has passed, and O! What a long seven days! I can imagine only the Lord himself hath
spent a longer and more arduous time (I am referring to His supposed creation
of the universe, including Adam and Eve etcetera).
Seven days in which I had hoped like a poor fool at some
point you would call, or reply to my letters.
Alas, I remain a stranger on the shore (wandering to the aching tune of
a saxophone).
Are you really too busy to be in touch? I suppose you must be, otherwise I know you
would have sent me an effervescent reply to at least one of the aforementioned
missives.
No word from the publishers (yet), but I have finished the
manuscript you’ll be encouraged to know.
Sadly, and perhaps in relief of how I am feeling just now (with mushy
pen about to inscribe the agony that would otherwise issue forth from the
fleshy, bloody wound of my mouth), I decided to kill off both characters (the
man and woman in love) in a car crash on the French Riviera – it was their
honeymoon no less!
Woe, woe and more woe: there’s too much of it,
Rosalind. And people forget it takes
strength to be gentle and kind. Either
that or they don’t have any strength in the first instance, or an inkling of
kindness.
Remember the last occasion we were together? Was I not as kind and gentle as a nun or a
nurse? (Or a priest?).
You know, I wanted to tell you then that I loved you, I
wanted to share my devout and heartfelt feelings for you, Rosalind. And only for you! Naturally, I could not find the
right inspiration, so I write, and write you (and roam, and wait).
I like touching you, Rosalind, when you are with me: a
woman’s flesh is soft and forgiving, whereas mine is vile and reptilian (I had
a pet crocodile when I was a boy, you know, out on the plantation. Well, I say I, rather it was a household
pet. We killed it after it bit the legs
off the gardener one afternoon - but I did touch it once when it was asleep).
Can I be with you again soon(ish)? And run my yearning
fingers through your sweet-smelling hair? And caress your rosy cheek with my homonidean
thumbs? There’s an art show we should go
to: I know, well, half know the artist, and doubtless we could get tickets to
the opening night – champagne, caviar, the works!
Yours,
…gentle and kind.
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