[Ahem.]

I need your love to keep me warm
Like the fires burning inside of us
Pushing us over the edge of insanity
Keeping us so close together in heart
And yet so far apart in miles...

Fascinating... I've spent the last ten hours going through the personal collection of a fine lady who will remain nameless. She seems to have kept the letters of her admirers, for which I am either eternally grateful or eternally bitter.

My heart beats like a drum,
Every time I touch your bum-

Ah, well, we know where that's going.

What I find most interesting is a letter she wrote herself. It seems to be unsent, more of a diary entry than anything. It's inescapably... sad. I wish she had a better caliber of admirers.

These are letters written by a woman who loves but is not loved. What's more, she does not deserve to be loved because she is dull, affected, stiff, and ungraceful. If these letters were not so bad, one would be tempted to believe that they have been entrusted to printing by a woman who had no other way of apprising her lover of her situation and feelings.

Yet, her letters are significant enough for Riftwatch to archive them. I believe she was wrong, in the end. She is remembered. And in the margins she seems to have scrawled... simply one of the best poems I have ever read.

I want to call you thou, the sound
of the shape of the start
of a kiss - like this - thou -
and to say, after, I love
thou, I love, thou I love, not
I love you.