postal delay months after the news, i discover your letter in an electronic journal, found in a fraction of the universe's eyeblink - too late. the letter that never arrived says: "Lafitte, Five years. All sense's gone. Eventide is upon me. Zeus has shown no mercy. And though the gods are often satirized, I still find strength to believe. This may be bad, however, as I believe I will again find your lips. Incredible that I now write you considering that I had to go on an Olympian quest to find out your location. Doubtless my intentions in writing might seem equivocal to you, but I assure you that most of my problems are rooted at my birth. There is no doubt that I will probably never reach Heaven seeing as I tend to use my writing as a weapon against capital society. It has even gotten to the point where I use literature as a substitute for orgasm and have even stopped taking my barbituates against doctor's orders. I am writing in this little shack with hardly any light, my boat is beginning to freeze in the water outside. Can't help but think of the winters I have spent here almost every year of my life in this nearly abandoned town in which I have lived my entire life, whatever that means. This is why I got the thought to write you after all these years, seeing I am here and there's nobody to watch over me, to scrutinize my every move. You used to do that, and I think I miss that part of you very much because it kept me aware of my own faults and various short comings. It is now noon, yet the air has a chilly edge. I've never delighted in laying down laws as you have. Perhaps I just need to read a good book? I remember we both agreed to do so. I am guilty of not doing it. I don't like modernism, you see. It turns breathing into gasping."
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