Wesley,
when I arrived you were very much broken. I think I understand that know, and I think I'm broken too.
.
It has been years since you died.
Years ago I believed that I was going to forget you. In time you would become like the other animals that inhabit this land. But you haven't.
You had a hard life.
Many animals have.
Why don't I care about them?
I think I cared about you. But now I to care about you memory.
.
[ Did you cared about me?
No.
Not really, and that makes me feel something. ]
.
I'm broken.
.
This shell had a soul, and when I got in I destroyed it. You are never going to have peace because you can never be in heaven with the one you love. The only think left of her is in me. And it's small. So small. But human. And in me.
.
[ If you were really here you would be harsh and I would understand this even less. ]
.
I'm writing this because I like ballpoint pens. It's odd. Did she liked ballpoint pens?
.
People are odd.
.
And Fred still loves you.
.
.
This is a drabble, literally. And it's not very good. But I wanted to write something about Illyria. This is almost a character study but smaller and dimmer.
The letter, it is a letter, isn't signed because a) she doesn't know she is writing a letter; b) nothing is ever really finished, not the Sistine Chapel and most definitely not people.
