Dearest All,
I've written oh so many letters for you, and it is my intention to share them with you; what good is a letter without a recipient? (be they real or imagined, I know not, in this case: letters, recipients, intentions- real or imagined? I'm unwilling even to venture a guess.)
These letters are not the sort with which I am familiar: though written by me, they are soundless and writhing, leaving sentences as wet rotting wood. I'd intended them to be elegant things: poetic, even. Informed by crustaceans, by slime mold, by varicose veins, by racing hounds' legs; even with all these beautiful things to draw from, somehow, this letter isn't quite so nice as I'd hoped.
Nonetheless, my dearest All, I present to you this first letter:
With Warmest Regards,
eric
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It is the most fluid unlovely thing I have ever seen.
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