Sunday, October 09, 2005

The Letter-Writer
















‘Everything else is just killing time,’ she wrote to him like that, like nothing else mattered. No ‘hi,’ no ‘dear _____,’ no how-are-yous. No, nothing as mundane, nothing as banal. She went straight to the heart of the matter, right to the gut.

She writes, ‘I cannot endure this distance, how my limbs ache for you, how at night, my loins quiver with desire. I take walks to get away from this madness, to get away from him. I will walk away one day and never come back. Everyday _____, I am walking towards you. Everything else is just killing time.’
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