Lion-Hearted Jester

I can hear the wind howling outside--twisting and writhing its way through the spaces in the windows. The small sounds of the cat's breathing accompanied by the lapses of silence between gusts and the man with the chainsaw down the street. I do not know what to make of this foreign city--so far from my little cottage that I doubt I will see again. Last night I dreamt I fought a man to the death. Strange dreams in a strange city.

Such vague ramblings. How is it that you know me so well? I can feel the waves of nostalgia shaking through my bones. The cold night air that blows straight through my skin. I sometimes imagine that you read my ramblings--my silly late night thoughts--and wonder about the person writing them and to whom they were written.

I can hear them through the walls and I've had too much to drink and, darling, oh how I want to talk to you now, but I know that this isn't the time. Here, in the early darkness of the morning--hours before the sun will begin to rise, I cannot seem to sleep. There is too much on my mind and all I can think to do is write you these letters that you'll probably never read amidst these terrible run-on sentences.