dearest selfish, hedonistic, unsinkable henry,

i dream of your joyous dirty paris, your wet midnight cobblestone streets, your dark dime-a-dance nightclubs with their smoke and the sadness of human contact.

what it would have been to see the world through your eyes, to push up your girl's skirt with such ease, to borrow from your friends with no shame, concerned only with what this world had to offer you with no thought of what, perhaps, your duty was to others.

you excite the narcissist in me, to think such a life is possible! and then celebrated!

smut peddler, i adore you!

i tell you, friend, this longing in me is starting to take form. it is slow, but it is starting to find it's way back from the other side of the wardrobe. when you wake up inside and begin to take shape before your own eyes, it is quite like looking through internal funhouse mirrors.

and when it, this desire, shows itself to me, finally, i doubt it will be denied.

what then, i wonder.

i am excited, and a bit afraid.