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