letters to the indifferent interior

Dearest H--,

In light of perfection, everything seems to be less and less full. But that is only an idea at best. And once approached, all of the things that combine to allow for one person to set to rest 27 consecutive batters become distorted--a smearing of imperfections. Nervousness must be kept to a minimum. As must most emotion and excessive outbreaks of light and weather, or peoples voices from the distant backdrop. Maybe it's the fact that a series of imperfect events could lead to something that people would admire. It's a sort of art, a sort of deception.

I hear you have been shouldering a large satchel of complaints. I do not mean to make our former company years any less glistening. Oh what the stretch and yawn of time does to mark things with different light, depending upon one's demeanor. I will not keep instructions in the cupboard anymore. I will not think about the heart as a corridor or what years have stripped the walls of my memory. You are a serious deviant with your speech of the cheif. I can't rightly say what to make of this finding of his, but you had better make your bed consistently and try your sharpest clothes on in front of the mirror to see how slouched you've grown. If you have. I only speak of this from experience.

I am growing poorer by the day. This in a very literal sense and in relation to people. Please disregard any offensive words or actions I may have spoke or enacted in your presence or without it. I cannot stand to lose.

Always yours,
B--