Dearest dearest.

Recount your woes and I shall be your confessor. I shall silently hold your hand and tell you the truth, without laughing or being pugnacious (which I do only to make you notice me anyway, and only because I find the prospect of your enjoying my company so perfectly ludicrous). I should like to tell you of your face, to hold a mirror up with my words and to speak the light back into your own sad countenance. Today was a gloomy day, you said, and that you'd have to go to bed. I wish I was there, weaving my cold toes into your warmth as you told me of all those woes.