Dearest Rushie,
Must we pretend and struggle to write or must we contemplate the thought of pausing which is irrefutably unforgivable? Certainly for me. Had it been a lone journey, I might have forgotten, I might have given up, it wouldn't have mattered.

However, it is but with a friend, does a person find strength to go on. To not give up despite the urge to.

I saw something disturbing last week, or was it the week before? I can not know, I've been sitting in the same place since two days except for getting up for meals and nature's call. It was a dead crow. A dead crow over the side road, another very much alive looming over it. It wasn't as much disturbing as I found it somehow...warm. I thought it mourning, I thought it sympathy, compassion. Almost a human emotion. A mere glance it was, yet it stayed. It's still just as fresh. Is it strange? What do you think it was? I wish I could see more than a glance but I was passing.

I look at the moodboard you made me sometimes. I like it so very much. The blood red knitted sweater, the splayed out hands. Sometimes I wish it were me you received rather than these letters and I can almost see it-- I, sitting at your table, bright-eyed and you baking me cheesecake or perhaps those biscuits I adore, it excites me; the very thought of watching you bake more than what you bring me after. Exactly like the first time I saw you paint, it was exhilarating!

You're comfort in human shape. And I'll come to you even if an hour late, true to my word.

Delicately destroyed,
Ramshi.