I write you once more, and at this point, I can't bring myself to count how many of my letters have gone unanswered. I write in hope that you'll offer to me the little of which I ask, the mountain of which to you to reply.

The sun’s rays burn my hand through the window glass, the fire of which I write to you once more.

The damps on the letter were carefully carelessly crafted by my eyes; its tears direct a dance that has no bearing, but still is harmonious.

I sit at the peak of a high tower, outside of which exist a divide; on my left is the rocky land, which lies empty of feet. Beside it is the sea with many fish, of which none can meet me on land.

For now, I believe that to be my story. I am a mere man on a rocky land, and the fish in the sea are those whom I am to love, but I lay here on land, cursed by my love for the intimacy between the fish and weakened by my inability to partake in it. For the sea exists, and many more fish in it, but I exist out of it, a mere observer, wanting no more than to be a participant.

I can ask you make me a fish, but in becoming a fish, I lose myself, and in losing myself, what is the point of love? If it's not me who loves, I still live outside love.

My dilemma is that of a mad loner, active in mind but paralyzed on feet.

My chest is a furnace that burns for love, but the nature of the fish is to survive in water. My passion becomes a problem and not a fiery beauty.

I must conclude. My paper has reached its extent, but in this, I hope you understand what I write to you.

Yours Sincerely,

Mad loner.