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|Letters from the Unsuspecting
|My own dear,
Having already, justly and unconvincingly condemned you for your calm and quiet distance, for your slow and drawn out speech, for your maddeningly steady gaze and your apparently imperturbable calm, and most ungraciously of all, for your utter lack of immediacy, at this point I would request simply to be left alone with previously held fantasies of you; I would suggest them to grow wildly and nourish themselves insatiably in your absence, and, although barely enclosed, in your quiet and near distance. I would have implored some - , or perhaps any - thing to stand here and curse aloud, to spit upon or otherwise desecrate this unsoiled place. Similarly I would not find it compelling or in any way satisfactory if extenuating factors were contrived, if cleverly-laid facts or touchy circumstances became manifest, or for that matter were I presented with any predilections to condition myself towards, or with any such aspects disturbing or distracting from the subtlety of motions and beginnings of phrases, from that intricacy of looks and evocations set onto streams of air trapped and floating through rooms, floated and speculated from one to the other; are you, are you such a speculator?
Previous to your suggestive but fundamentally inconclusive phrasings (pored over at length this very morning), I had temporarily been released of the ache that crept onto summer linens and slipped between clammy morning skin and nightgown; I had momentarily absolved myself of the pointed desire which has folded itself into mine, and which had directed itself rather effortlessly and punctually toward the creative reaches of the limbs, and in the direction of a shameless yearning to again touch something so lovely, so lithe, as you. If such things are ever again to be mine, or ours, are you, in your unassuming aspect, in your strategic silences, implying such a trajectory? Or are you merely claiming to be held as passively as that which is implicated? In the case that we were anyway to bid one another something effortless and quiet, something uncomplicated, or, - and I risk a slight indelicacy in the interest of precision - something occasional, then could this be considered to be without economy?
It is with no greater fervor than that for which you have likely maintained and wielded remoteness as a formalized passion, that I sign myself,
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