Dear Rarity,
It's rare a night passes where my thoughts don't drift to you. I miss you dear sister, I thought that I'd be happy, here in Canterlot, sharing my talents with the denizens of our capital; but they don't understand, they don't recognize my talents, they pass me off as nothing more than a back-water hick. My songs nothing more than off-key, mediocre noise that is not fit for their ears to listen to. Their close-minded thoughts are unbearable, I knew my music was unorthodox, but...this is absolutely ridiculous!
Oh how I long for the days of old, when you and I would sit under the shade of the library and hum tunes of optimism. songs that challenged the pessimism of our society. I miss the days when my music was appreciated for what it was, and cherished for the emotions that it produced. I feel as if a part of me has died here in Canterlot dear sister, for now I spend my days singing on the streets, hoping that some pony will have it in their heart to drop a couple of bits in my hat, just so that night I can fill my stomach with something to keep me going, if only for a little longer.
My heart is breaking Rarity, the tears never end, flowing from my eyes like eternal rivers of sorrow. I press on, for nothing but a dream of a dream, for hope, hope that one day, some pony will stop for a moment and truly listen to the lyrics that drip from my lips, like blood from a wound. Hope that someday some pony will hear my words of sorrow, and cry, cry as I have cried, with tears never-ending, and the salty taste burning their tongues as they sob. A star falls from the sky above me tonight, and I've decided to wish upon it. Do you know what my wish is?
I wish...I wish could go home.
sincerely,
Your Beloved Brother
Benson Hedges.