lettres from another time

A red pale sprig from "Passiflora incarnata"

She took the whole box of letters, and she took his perfume. Abigail was standing after I told her the whole story, his story with Sarah Heather. I told her everything his daughter had told me. She was shocked and then said, “Now what are you going to do?” I told her that I had previously promised him that I would still love him, even if I woke up one day and found him to be the monster that Kafka wrote about. I would love him even if he was not fit to love, and I believe that this day had come when I woke up to find him transformed into that monster, and I would never change my feelings towards him. Oh Abigail, I will still love him in a strange, mysterious way that no one will understand except me and him, and just as no matter how much I take precautions towards this love, All things would have pushed me in similar ways to love him again, and I would have still loved him even if I had found him as a woman. How it bothers me, Abigail, that I will always wonder if he loved me as Mary Brooks, or as Sarah Heather. The worst thing he did was not that he loved me, or made me love him. But because he loved me for what I am not I loved him for what he was not, I loved him because he was George Merle Hall back in the day And he loved me because I remained a reflection of Sarah Heather in the present, I was struck with great pain when I discovered that I was not a witness to the love that happened between us. I was a witness to the love that happened between him and her. No one but Sarah loved Heather

And I was never, Abigail, Sarah Heather It was all I could get by being nothing in his letters, I was just a bottle of liquid black ink in its white storms with her It was the sea and its secrets It was the mountains and its peak, It was winter and it was stormy What was I, just a naive young woman with a childish heart carrying the face of his lover? Just a stupid young woman who had confessed to him a thousand times that she loved him through letters But he loved a woman who never agreed to exchange a letter with him I was so naive that I sent him my entire heart inside an envelope. I sent my heart through the mail to him, and Mary was laughing from the severity of her pain. As for him, I know that I was just words that he wanted to say to her I was just another little perfume, the last, trapped in his memory, bringing him back to her and taking him to her.

Abigail hugged me, and she was crying for me. She said that she always suspected that he loved me. He was watching me secretly, asking about me secretly. He was looking for me when I was not here in the nursing home. Abigail believed that he loved me, and that he was a man who would not lie about his feelings. She said To me, he's just a calm man, but he's shaken by so much chaos. He's just like a thin, frozen branch, but he beats, he dreams, and he also has a heart and tears. The things most susceptible to freezing are the things most sensitive to the sun. They're thin and fragile and tired of the long, cold winter's frost. He's just getting used to them. Despite that harsh atmosphere, he is a difficult man, but I know that he was a kind and sensitive man He was a man who struggled to be just himself because no one recognized him for the other self that was inside him He once told me, Mary, that he once loved a woman and this woman would not stop appearing in his life, and he said that he was always ready to offer his heart to her even if he knew that there was no salvation for him in doing so. He'll still do that He truly loved you, and it didn't matter if you looked like his ex-girlfriend, because you were none other than Mary Brooks, and everything you wrote belonged to Mary Brooks. I laughed and said, Abigail, you are saying a lot of things that even a psychologist would not say in a situation like this. Abigail said that sadness motivates me to say such support. I said that sadness moves everything. It is a strange energy and the only one that shakes a person. She told Abigail that she was lucky because she had a blessing, that she had never been a striking woman, that she had facial features and a strange beauty that no one else could share, that she was richer because no one looked up to her, no one had her features. I told her he was looking for Sarah Heather, not me He loved to look for me, to ask about me and to say nice things about me. Because it was an apology to me. His conscience was making him suffer. His conscience was tired and burdened by the past Everything, past and present, was hers, but I only had fleeting apologies
After I returned home in the evening, alone and worse than usual, because this time I also felt like a moving package from the past, and I was also praying, but I was practicing all my prayers with my fingers and with my words that I was typing on the Typographer, and I wrote to him from them as well. Previously many letters She felt the love flowing through my fingers, will she now also feel the sadness that breaks me? I don't believe in God, George Miller Hall, so I have nothing to heal my soul but my ugly, immature little words. I'm young, but I carry a sadness that's even darker The darkness of the ocean from which you did not escape, George Miller Hall I am more mysterious than this universe than the one who has this knowledge and tries to understand me, that I am poor in everything, and I no longer have anything but writing. I wrote the first page like this It was the beginning of a season in which everything fell, the fall of 1991.