I haven’t been able to tell you I can’t come. I will not be there and it creates within me a sense of paralysis. The paralysis of holding the hand of a lover who turns into a statue. I know the blackness and because of this I dread the night. I know there is starlight and moonlight, but why dream when those dreams will only burn out the sky? I can’t express to you the full sense of the depth of loss I feel and envision, for to do so would seem rather gloomy to you I imagine. I am too intuitive for my own good, and yet it is when I heed these flashes of fire that I am able to find a sense of sanity in the madness that is this roaring heart. I would have loved you like St Elmo’s fire otherwise. I would have created black soot of your heart and red coal of your body.