I wrote this in a piece of almost-forgotten paper. I am forever writing pieces of poetry, bones of a prose and what have you in whatever I can find lying around the house and so here we are ---
Because it is not in my nature to tell people what I suspect they already know about themselves:
I don't love you as much as you do me but I suspect you already know that...
so began the handwritten letter that had been delivered by post earlier. Enclosed in a nondescript white postal envelope, the letter was seven pages thick, written on ruled yellow paper. It bore traces of what she suspected to be tears. Or sweat. She could be wrong. Hadn't Eloise written about the dreadful dry spell that had been plaguing the city lately? She banked on the former, hoping somehow that the words were as hard to utter as it was to read them...
