in the wind of your knowledge
Here, an envelope: thick and creamy paper holding together a small bundle of photographs and a hastily written, unfinished missive in childish scrawl. The ink is smudged in places and a small, blue fingerprint or two remains imprinted on the corners.
Dear Bret,
Fortuitously enough, it appears I have come across paper and ink after all. I'm writing this despite being entirely unsure if I'll ever see you again. I'm not used to such pessimism in my own thoughts but for once it feels easier than saying that I'll definitely be back soon. It frightens me a little. But I promised, and I don't like breaking my promises, so please don't think I'm not trying. I'm merely trying and feeling unsure of it.
My point is that I have been waylaid. That is to say I'm back at the palace, which you might see in the few pictures I took before the camera device refused to work. I think it ran out of paper to paint the images on. I wish you hadn't gone and injured yourself, for the very selfish reason that I miss your company. I'm hardly allowed outside and I haven't a soul to speak with, here. Dull, dull, dull. I want to leave this place so much. I want to get back to helping Albrecht. I want to see you again. Is that bad? My brother ought to be my priority, but I end up thinking of you as well. Sometimes so much that I feel ill again. Lightheadedness, a tight feeling in my chest and a quickened heartbeat, the sensation of something dancing in my stomach. Even now, I
should probably call the physician
