A Letter
This is unnecessary. It could be addressed to you. (If you're female, anyway.) So go ahead and take it like it is. Why not? Go ahead, see what happens: I wrote this for you.
Stop a moment, think about it, take it in. For you.
Now.
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Dear Young Lady,
I went and saw The Seagull tonight. It was re --not relentlessly sad, not until the ending, and then it was horribly gripping. The girl Nina, tormented and destroyed, reminded me of you. Don't laugh or smirk, it's entirely true. I wanted to take her under my arm & fix things, like I do with you-- but I could not, that stage and that law separated us, a and we are separated as we were in fant in this fantasy. You were full of such hurt, such pain, such longing for soothing, and it didn't work out and lives were ruined. The last voice of the play was a quiet, pathetic, helpless sob. I hardly could applaud.
Now, ridiculously (isn't that Chekhov's love? Ridicule, the ridiculousness of life?), I am here in this lovely... Italian (?) Toronto Café thinking of you as I savour custard tart and éclair and cappuccino picture-perfect, domed with cream and dusted with light brown magic and on a saucer for just under $5, and I'd pay ten times that for the same meal with you sharing the table. You're lively; you need me in my fantasies, Seagull-induced, and I need you. We savour each other unabashedly, fuck the future cause we're in love. Neither of us thinks the other can realize her or his beauty. We eat slowly and we see things by candlelight; musical-sounding Italian men(?) and TV and shop sounds synthesize to create... something else. And we are catalyst to this gorgeous perfection, and if we were to fall asleep on this café table our dreams would have become realized.
The éclairs are divine; you would enjoy them. The tarts as well. I like to imagine -- oh, perhaps the men are Russian! -- that I make a scene while eating, or enjoying myself; that perhaps some young lady will look in, see me enjoying my meal so thoroughly, and rush angelic and Fury in to be a part of my life. Perhaps for short, perhaps for long. Perhaps it'd happen to be you.
Perhaps.
I shall try the cappuccino. Bitter, and somehow delightful. I'd love your thoughts on this, your comments. You are beautiful. You and I could be very rapturously beautiful. Together. Tight. (The pastry loses its hue and richness without you.)
I l o n g f o r
y o u .
If we love beautifully, it will be a surprise
only that we have actually moved to rest on
each other's souls, after all of the longing and
eager anticipation ------
and that, perpetually, forever.
I am, and will remain, yours.
------Dylan Hillyer
(P.S. Portuguese. I asked the...
proprietor, I suppose. It sounds beautiful.
The name is the Caldense Bakery. I hope to
take you here someday.) --D.H.
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Stop a moment, think about it, take it in. For you.
Now.
--------------------------------------------------
Dear Young Lady,
I went and saw The Seagull tonight. It was re --not relentlessly sad, not until the ending, and then it was horribly gripping. The girl Nina, tormented and destroyed, reminded me of you. Don't laugh or smirk, it's entirely true. I wanted to take her under my arm & fix things, like I do with you-- but I could not, that stage and that law separated us, a and we are separated as we were in fant in this fantasy. You were full of such hurt, such pain, such longing for soothing, and it didn't work out and lives were ruined. The last voice of the play was a quiet, pathetic, helpless sob. I hardly could applaud.
Now, ridiculously (isn't that Chekhov's love? Ridicule, the ridiculousness of life?), I am here in this lovely... Italian (?) Toronto Café thinking of you as I savour custard tart and éclair and cappuccino picture-perfect, domed with cream and dusted with light brown magic and on a saucer for just under $5, and I'd pay ten times that for the same meal with you sharing the table. You're lively; you need me in my fantasies, Seagull-induced, and I need you. We savour each other unabashedly, fuck the future cause we're in love. Neither of us thinks the other can realize her or his beauty. We eat slowly and we see things by candlelight; musical-sounding Italian men(?) and TV and shop sounds synthesize to create... something else. And we are catalyst to this gorgeous perfection, and if we were to fall asleep on this café table our dreams would have become realized.
The éclairs are divine; you would enjoy them. The tarts as well. I like to imagine -- oh, perhaps the men are Russian! -- that I make a scene while eating, or enjoying myself; that perhaps some young lady will look in, see me enjoying my meal so thoroughly, and rush angelic and Fury in to be a part of my life. Perhaps for short, perhaps for long. Perhaps it'd happen to be you.
Perhaps.
I shall try the cappuccino. Bitter, and somehow delightful. I'd love your thoughts on this, your comments. You are beautiful. You and I could be very rapturously beautiful. Together. Tight. (The pastry loses its hue and richness without you.)
I l o n g f o r
y o u .
If we love beautifully, it will be a surprise
only that we have actually moved to rest on
each other's souls, after all of the longing and
eager anticipation ------
and that, perpetually, forever.
I am, and will remain, yours.
------Dylan Hillyer
(P.S. Portuguese. I asked the...
proprietor, I suppose. It sounds beautiful.
The name is the Caldense Bakery. I hope to
take you here someday.) --D.H.
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