Dated December 12th, 1810
You should be blind but you'd make a mockery of the peace it brought.
The rain is to circumvent the arms you wore for criminals where you should have done for soldiers. She washes clean without a weapon, you filth.
Your fat would do better in a kitchen, pig.
She could stitch a map to you using these letters and some thread. Her pen bleeds through and clots the same. It wets the same and dries.
More doors before the sun set. Doors 6 (girls Marie, Helena and Anne) 8 (women drinking tea and they were not pleased to be disturbed in that) 11 (a priest with eyes that were not his) and 15 (a mirage coughing a sickness his nurse would not divulge). Every knock gives a name to a selected few seconds not different from the nameless ones I count of my slavery to this search for the other half of my numberless heart.
Breckenridge was right. The lively flower was right. America is a prospect.
A nude marble mermaid in a dreams ending in ejaculate. An orchard doesn't choose it's fruit is no idiom I've heard.
Thoughts continue to clear through this hollow room. Clarity is cruel. I've caught his scent is all and it will leave my nostrils by morning.