(4.Isobel

How tragic! How utterly sad that even after all the silence I have given to you, I still hear the annunciations of your voice. I still ache to have you hear my words and understand how much you mean to me. My dearest Isobel, if I could write like Beethoven as he spoken to his immortal beloved and spoke it so that it is as beautiful as it is pathetic, then I would! My dearest Isobel!if only how Napoleon might speak to Josephine and tell her right at that moment how no victor is sweeter than her, is there any need for me to tell you I would.

My sweetest, I do suffer. Beneath the most hideous circumstances.
I love wrong and when I do it is not enough. I love but when I do there is none that understand it so. Only you. I am so sorry to have abandoned you after so long. (I hate they have all the words of the world and I have so little):


&


Dear Isobel, April 30
It has been a while since I picked up the pen to write of anything other than the milkiness of the sky in April. I wanted to tell you of all the things that happened this week, but now, it is rather trivial, the things whispered from the mouths of children. I do, sometimes, write a letter my nameless, and I am not sure if you are that one or someone else; regardless you and I share an intimacy not dared shared by any other. But I laugh, for it is better not to cry over these dark comedies.
I can hear you while you whisper these words, as you ask all questions. I can answer somedays, and today, maybe.
It has taken me three days to construct this and even longer to gather the courage: I am not dead. I still breathe the same stale air through a recycled mouth; I write down the progression of the wall cracks which form names. They are two that can break my heart, thick black lines like abyss.
From fear, I cannot pronounce either.

(I spill I spill I spill)