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18 juin 2007 @ 21:54
A trip to the seashore  
Dearest Mendaciloquent,

It is now well into the lonely, quiet hours of the morning as I set down to pen you this missive. Scarcely a leaf moves on the trees outside my window, and all is shrouded in the heavy, humid air beneath the sidereal sky. At this late hour, I am moved by overwhelming want for your companionship and counsel, as it is one of the few things able to allay the fear that has overtaken me now. Against grandaunt's wishes, I stole from my chambers after bedtime and snuck down to the study so that I might work by "electric lamp" on my treatise on chemistry, religion, and poetry. It was well past midnight when I finally retired to bed, yet I was not asleep long before I awoke with a start from a most horrifying dream.

In this dream I was strolling the grounds at the summer house, walking across the field down the hill from the conservatory. It was the middle of the day, there were no clouds in the sky, and as such, no objects cast any shadows as I made my way across field. The earth was uncannily quiet as I reached the stream with its large plane tree under which we sought refuge last summer from the oppressive heat to read one another poetry and splash around in the water. I stared into the flowing, dark waters of the stream. I was about to sit down under the plane tree when I noticed that one of the rocks by the stream seemed out of place, as though the earth around it did not conform perfectly with its edge. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon as I approached the stone. I placed my fingertips under the edge of the rock, and expending more physical energy than I am normally wont to do, I turned it over. As it landed with a crash in a crop of mugwort, the stench of the irriguous earth wafted up from the depression and filled my nostrils so powerfully, I nearly lost my bearing. I strained my eyes to peer into the maw left behind where the stone once sat. It was quite dark now. I could make out what appeared to be something wrapped in a piece of cloth. When I reached in to remove the object, I realized it was burlap. The outside was clammy and cold, but as I began to peel it back, arid flakes of dirt and cloth fell off. As I reached the rectangular object at its center, the smell of the agglutinative pollen of the oversexed plants rose all around me. I thought I heard what sounded like a raspy panting to my left as the last of the cloth fell to the ground. It was a book. And it was sticky.

I awoke in a panic, my clothes drenched in so much sudation that I thought I might have wet the bed again, the stench of that damp earth still clinging to my nostrils. It is times like these that I still wish you were with Mother and me, that you might sit up with me awhile, soothe my apprehensions and misgivings, and perhaps fix me a warm cup of tea. You were always able to palliate my delicate sensibilities better than any other!

I dare say, it has been too long, my good friend, and I believe that the time approaches when, once again, we must take a little romp down to the seaside. I thought we might enjoy victuals at Mother's first. There is also a delicious libation to which I would love to introduce you; it comes from the Southern area of the United States of America, the only region of that modern continent which self-consciously organizes itself according to principles of nature rather than simply tossing itself together as a mere aggregate. I have the greatest respect for that region of the world, and though I have never had the pleasure of conversing with a southern gentlemen, I imagine that, if I did, I would find in him an ineliminable world-wisdom and probity. In any case, the drink is called a "mint julep". It has a most racy effect on the humours, I find, and the taste is incomparable. Afterward I thought we might go to the seashore, perhaps for a swim, and afterward enjoy some fruit de la mer.

Maybe this would be an appropriate occasion to bring your new lady along? You did not know that I knew about that, did you? Do not worry, Kyle told me everything. You don't have to keep it a secret anymore. Mendaciloquent, you have the ways of a gregarious little beetle, I know just as well as you the demands of society. Should you feel the need to maintain a rapport hétérosexuel, I would be the least to object. Fear not: I promise I will behave and keep my obstreperous jealousy at bay for you!

Ah, there we go, my dove! See? Just the thought of your presence manages to soothe my agitation. I find myself calm and depleted, ready to rest my head back on my pillow and slip away to quiet slumber.

I pray that my missive finds you vital. Please make sure in your next correspondence to send me some more of your poems. I am enclosing a draft of my most recent work: A Treatise on the Sciences & Myths of Man, Beginning With Culture In Its Oriental Infancy & Progressing Forward to the Technological Advents of Modernity, Such as the Dirigible, &c.

Until next time and forever
I am faithfully yours,
Your most humble friend and servant,