Dear Sunny, My dream was of her, whom I knew not other than she was mine, and mine alone. I saw not her face but I knew that she was beautiful, a sensation, a delight, a wonder, a tower of grace, loving my appearance by planting on me kisses of joy on my manly soft lips. This made my heart be in a state of heaven, in tranquility, in awe of her feminine frame and at times question her decision of why she choose to be with me, a dust. Her ways are smooth, gentle, finer than the purest gold. I loved her more than my desire to awake, but I did awake. The traces of her touch still lingered sweetly in my memory, only desiring in this realm of reality who she may be.
It seems my dear Caane, I long for the intimacy of a woman’s touch, desiring to know her and to be known by her. But I do not desire the commitment, the centrality of faithfulness or of her to constantly intrude my space, although at times I am eagerly thirsty for this drink. These are conflicting emotions in me, a battle of the will and flesh. For why did I dream this? Why in the deep evening when all my faculties were laid to rest was my heart in a labour of love, in the garden of bliss cultivating the grounds of sweetness?
My dear Sunny, I shall come to you in a week or so to discuss with you about the recent rise of immorality.
Your good friend