Dear Jane Eyre

Dearest,

My dearest friend Jane, it is of such an unknown descriptive adjective I have not yet read or written down yet to express to you hearing your voice in written form once again—to just begin explaining how happy I am for this moment.

Yes, I can hear your beautiful voice even as it’s written. It’s my longing, my loneliness, my pain, how much I miss you. I hope you’re doing well and please keep me aware and posted on anything new or old about your life. I would love to know it all, bad, good and in between.

It’s been a bit of dry hell the last few weeks, well, past few months. My wife has her fits of heated anger and subtle hatred, her glowing and growing indifference of my career and the things I love and care about yet when I bring up these hurtful actions, she only gives me protestations of being passionately in love with me. It is all selfish lies piled upon lies, things she tells herself she must believe so she can not have her life fall apart and lose everything.

Your poetic language is so artful and intense. As intense and as intellectual as you are. May I ask if this relates to someone in particular? I don’t like to get my hopes up if I get feelings when I read into things, especially when I’m so emotional in general as a man—so, it’s just a indicator of my feelings for you.

Love always, your friend,

Edward