Dear Lucy,
The rain doesn’t come quite as often as it used to now that they’ve stitched the sky with paraffin. I can’t get myself to balance properly. Missing a toe is discreet, but my able-bodied ways are less than they’ve been before. That hand to mouth technique of covering coughs still works well on most days; the nights are a different story. I am below average in my workload, but I’ve become fairly adept at making anagrams out of my name. Yesterday I spelt Wilt Chamberlain. Also, I am nudging my way towards spelling “tread” correctly, instead of leaving the “a” out, which, as you well know, is my wont. Troubles arise; I kick bottle caps into the street. A cure for the meringue of worries in my head would be melting butter if thoughts were pats. Alas, I look askance at cats, and I chew blueberries, and I mope about town, and before bedtime my arms dangle buckets of rainwater, which I lift up and down many times. My strength is steadily ameliorating. More to the point, I have missing buttons in a drawer; they are not housebroken. The kneeling hours are well beyond me. Do not worry over my structures, for they suit the situations I create. Simpering has become a rash fate to dissolve my face into. Place me to show. Once something is beyond imagining, as pain before a blow from a hammer, it stipulates its own care, and this, among other still-born things, is not ordered for dessert. I remember well your gamy breath. If only we’d leased out your canker sores instead of your charms, then one might suppose these rooms would have sumptuously filled with pity. It’s a famous feeling one might get on breezy evenings while chewing gum or raking leaves. Other discoveries: dilapidation is the key ingredient to sorrow wearing off; movies are chimney smoke; I have more than enough prayers in the glove compartment of my old Buick; microphones might engender egress; life has put me on hold. Still, it might just be the practicing violinist down the hall who has me harebrained over piddling eyesores like wheeling in the garden hose. If I were you I’d dislike me. I’ve thought that before. Now that I’m sure of all that I am not, I will have a paper war with my scissors to get over it. I lace my shoes with kite string. Clothespins pinch the stems of the plastic flowers on my floor. I am not gutless. There are only broken umbrella stands and hot potatoes here. Please, I beg of you my dear, wash your hands before using the remote control.
yours, yours, yours, and only yours,
Rembalt Winchia
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