I've been reading over old correspondences. It's nice to remember times when I put the effort in:
...I am well aware that Frank And Open Conversation is never ever a good plan as far as inducing the swoons, but it was a last ditch attempt. Leg broken, arm completely torn off, one eye hanging out, it was me crawling over barbed wire with a cigar between my teeth yelling (between gasps of intense pain) "I bought you flowers and the best ice cream money can buy, I've been grooming myself religiously for the past month on the off chance you were to jump me, I told you you are beautiful, I slept in your bed and didn't try anything on, I visited you at work and took an interest in your interests to the point of joining you in lectures and helping on assignments, I even wrote you a song! And look! I can Talk About My Feelings!" And of course I spat the last four words out with pints of blood, because by that point it was obvious to all concerned that its not me, its her; time and place son; it could have been so right but its gone so wrong. The lights fade on the tragic scene and the audience lets out a collective sigh; in the rear corner someone is wiping their eyes as a lone bugle plays beyond the mist.
