The End Of The Endless Days: Unwanted Letters To A Colder Shore

Each day I will write to you. I will write of my own thoughts, also of impressions of you. I will imagine a small apartment, a place where one day we may have been together. Each day I will give up close on one hour to this hopeful venture. I will try to find a mind of solitude; a space to find inimitable new inspirations. Each day I will look ahead as back into the past. I will try to be kind and considerate, although I hope the passions will still flow; amorous arisings to rise and fall, in more or less equal measure. This is not the hour, but already, even today, I have wasted too many hours. I am in a very busy place; I hope yours is a quieter space, with a stillness in the ascendency. I am above the clouds, listening to recordings of birdsong. I hope there is also birdsong in your garden. I have never written these kinds of words before. It is like I have skirted around the counters on the counting floor. I have never pushed, nor asked outright for more. It is like I have held back, ever waiting for the never-to-be, ever unopened door.