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Summary
I wrote like a coloured cadaver of an insane erudite, smoked tobacco, assimilated painkillers and wrote again. And in a span of ten days, I wrote a hundred poems, and a dozen or two of unfinished letters, all about him.
He read it, and smiled. My immortal dead sweet darling smiled. Why was it that I did not realise then? That he was dying?
He brought the letter near his lips, and kissed it; gently. As gently as he kisses me to sleep. And leaned over me, caressed my cheeks, and kissed my cheeks, my nose tip, my forehead, and my lips. So gently. I melted.
[A letter of a painted, inmortal and sweet poet, on the escarpment of lunacy.]