Are you sure you want to know?
This is the letter I began, and had to discard. I did not send it because I could not reread it. There will only be more and more and more. Words………………..You see?
So. I left it. Just in case I dreamt that I wrote it at all.
It really does not tell you any facts of the time we speak of, doesn’t really fill you in on the missing pieces of just who exactly he is.
Nor of myself.
I won’t reread it.
I did not write it with form in mind. After a while, not even with your best interests in mind. Only what is there, or was, in my own mind.
Is this helpful to you? I feel not, but you are probably a strange girl anyway, and who am I to imagine what is needed?
I only survived the catastrophies in my own life by immersing myself in the stark and brutal pain and truth and ugliness of whatever Hell it was, whichever time and whatever came. So much. And why that alone didn’t kill me, I don’t know! It’s not what’s probably needed. But at least when I am done, I am done, eh?
The letter I started to you is as follows–