It has become more and more apparent that the visions I have for the world is lost upon me. I see clues everywhere but none of them make any sense. I am trapped in this conundrum of being logical or submitting to the theorem of logical irrationality. This is not darkness. At least not the type we are thrilled but afraid of. It is not the unlighted corridors we hugged, kissed, caressed and sublimed into each other's existence. There is neither shame nor anything criminal in this darkness. But it sucked me in, and the ghostly fangs within are enclosing to tear me apart.
My dear Irene, I could no longer remember the warmth of your body nor your face. The memories of the time we spent turn cold like the fog of London. And I know I shouldn't have written to you. For what we share is a guilt of not feeling guilty, the basic kind that bonds a man and a woman in the swiftest and closest way possible. I do not love you Irene, and everyday I pray that you don't love me too.