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2001-06-15 - 8:12 p.m.

dear x;

I think I write to you because I have to. It's not that I see something in the sky, or that a thought has set my imagination alight. No, there is an innate command directing me to release myself. Hours and hours I'm caged up in grey; my office is grey and blue in troupes. I feel like I am assuming some of its traits. I fear the cessation of this, my 'interior monologue'. But words are so inadequate, and maybe you feel that even these words, though yours particularly, are distant. Would it be such a loss, then?

I write to you because I must write. Do you ever think about thinking? I write about writing. The 'circles' I travel in, Athens, this circus that is my job... would not these be the usual bread-and-butter of most letter writing? Chez toi, though, these letters are transformed into a whole other animal. I do not want to have a conception of time or space when writing to you. Or maybe just this once? 'Good-bye to all that'. I just want to write to you of motives.

Do you believe that simplicity can be beautiful? Are you ever 'well-pleased'? Do you see life in more than two colours? Could any one question that I ask ever sway you somehow? Before I prick up the courage to write to you I'm often bombarded by doubt. What should I write? Tone? Length? Everything is a haze. I only ever begin by deciding that none of it matters; nothing that is obvious to me can touch you.

I write to you because of who you are. But as I say that I begin to doubt myself. So many of the deepest sentiments (deep as in difficult to see, to reach) are 'cut' when written. How am I ever to distill into words the myriad of motions and waves I go through whenever I am 'free' to think, to write? I ask so many questions that I wonder you have not stopped reading already.

the raison d'etre for these thoughts was so simple. I wanted to let you know (in case you really are blind) that I can't promise to write to you only when armedwithin an immediate reason. Writing to you has its own 'dimension'. It 'means something' (I don't know what). I just thought you should know that. I don'twrite only to invade your space with my presence (assuming words indicate presence). I do so under motives that are clear to me and only me, alas. Justas if you were to ask yourself why it is that you bother responding...well, beyond curtsying to the laws of politeness and a certain fascination (what sort of mind can produce such letters??) the reason is amidst a phalanx of beams. Underneath your heart.

troilus

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