And what about my mother? You say she is lost. You say she is gone. You say she is dead. Well then, to whom shall I address my fear? To whom shall I address my love? To whom shall I address my fire?

And what now to make of this? What steady love leaves loves abandoned? Not a holy love, I contend. But only holy love lasts. And only holy love burns white. For to char, to mold, to speak character into bones, into lions and into stones — only a holy flame can do such things. Only a holy love can make such things of nothing. 

I find comfort in liquesence. But if I were just a lucky compulsion of dust and wind — O, what would I make of these things? What things would make of me! 

And I assume the wealth of ghosts. (I must). I imagine they are plentiful, abounding. I find them rummaging in my basement. They, being hollow, stack upon each other like books, or pages of books, and me, being carnivorous, I find fruit in the blood of animals. I gorge on death, in thought, in deed, in spirit. 

And what shall I make of laughter? For it is more haunting than the paralysis of ghosts cooped up beneath my home. Laughter is the worst of all — O, and especially when coated with smeared, collage memories of warmth, red Christmas, thin elbows (thin wrists), wedding dresses, bone–cheeks, her chin and our eternal evening.

Sadly, I am never the Prince. I am eternally toad. I fold into stone (so I am told). 

(And) I must agree. Because I would never love to sit inside my house on fire; I never would love to sit and scream and feel my skin sticking to to the sheets, the bed, the floor, the ghosts. I would never sit and smile at a mirror while my face charred and fell onto the floor. — So I must fold into stone. Because there will be stones, at least, singing rapture songs and songs of rapture. There must be. 

So I fold. 

Sincely,
Cephas