My Dear Ophelia:
It is in our most quiet and reflective moments, where we are guided by constitutional reserve and intelligent virtues, where our stubborn countenance is born again, stoic and fixed, that the stalwart marrow of my heart still gnashes and gnaws its caged limbs, its voice though muted, smothered and subdued, still calls out your name, your unparallelled frame, indelible embrace—its want to propagate our spirited story.
So, today and in the days to come, uncouth and silently prowling our great moon-lit stage, let us live, Ophelia, not like a weary stifled witness, but like mad starving children, wildly roaming the city streets—purging the calls of our histories, giving our lives form!
Humbly yours,
W.C.
It is in our most quiet and reflective moments, where we are guided by constitutional reserve and intelligent virtues, where our stubborn countenance is born again, stoic and fixed, that the stalwart marrow of my heart still gnashes and gnaws its caged limbs, its voice though muted, smothered and subdued, still calls out your name, your unparallelled frame, indelible embrace—its want to propagate our spirited story.
So, today and in the days to come, uncouth and silently prowling our great moon-lit stage, let us live, Ophelia, not like a weary stifled witness, but like mad starving children, wildly roaming the city streets—purging the calls of our histories, giving our lives form!
Humbly yours,
W.C.
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