Dear –––––,

I would like to have you dwell here—except—where are you now? I checked, but your wikipedia page is vague.


You mention land and sea. Though it is almost nine o'clock, the skies are gay and yellow, and there's a purple craft or so, in which a friend could sail. Maybe land and sea and sky meet through steady summer twilight—the Sun tugs the waves to stay afloat, the water grips the sand, the Lilac echoes back, twinkling with the temptation of a vampire.


–––––, what if you were NOT strange? Wellness IS strange. I gather, you are thinking yourself a man, a man with a heart and a rattling brain, and that you are not well. Therefore let no man glory in men! Let man despair in men and glory in strange. If a body is well, it is not a body, it is a strange. Patience is strange—for all things are ours! The "all" is strange!

You shall find us all at the gate, if you come in a hundred years, just as we stood that day. Maybe you can use the twilight to find your way. Or better, I will take a picture of that Lilac, and you can follow it like a star. I'll put the picture on my wikipedia page—tomorrow night—when the land tips back enough to velvet the night—the moon will arrive early in my screen—from the dark street you can see my face. Perhaps the Retrospect will bring you back.

If you can't be here, tell me where you are. I want to know the distance of our twilight.

Please curve as the sun tugs instead.


Take,
–––––

 

Dear –––––,

You, with your spiritualizing nature, see more things than other people, and by the same process, refine all you see, so that they are not the same things that other people see, but things which while you think you but humbly discover them, you do in fact create them for yourself. I’m speaking here of the fondness I feel for you, so understanding, so far away. I feel myself slipping into confession, and then I think, LIFE is a confession, and I must be silent, and in that mood I say these things to you.

How is it, that while all of us human beings are so entirely disembarrassed in censuring a person; that so soon as we would praise, then we begin to feel awkward. The sun goes down on another night, and the water gets calm out there, and still I have not said the way I feel. I don’t know what to make of the sun but everything. Suddenly she catches the long shadow of the cliff cast upon the beach; and now she notes a shadow moving along a shadow. So the world happens in darkness until we pay attention, but I don’t pay attention, for tho’ we know what we ought to be; & what it would be very sweet & beautiful to be; yet we can’t be it.

Or then again perhaps life is the sea itself, by which I sit sometimes, imagining the way it might arrive at you. Life is a long Dardanelles, My Dear Madam, the shores whereof are bright with flowers, which we want to pluck, but the bank is too high; & so we float on & on, hoping to come to a landing–place at last – but swoop! we launch into the great sea!

Beleive Me
Earnestly Thine —
–––––