Paris, 3 de April de 1973
I apologize for how long it took for the last letter to arrive. I wrote it and held on to it. I was concerned that you would think I was moving too quickly and I let a few days go by before putting in the mail. Only now I realized that I forgot to change the date I wrote to you. So much for playing cool. The things we choose to concern ourselves with.
Dear, Marie,
I’m not sure how dear you are yet, and I have diggnosel ( what in the world? ) let me start this again…
Marie,
I need to take a breath or two before writing you this ( if the writing of this word looks weary, seems trembling to you it is because I never know if it is spelled as “writing” or “writting.” The same goes to the word Wednesday; I have to stop and write “wed” ( no double intendant-promise made or intended here) and then write “ nesday”.
It makes no sense; much like this letter it seems. A whole page; my hand hurts and I’ve managed to say absolutely nothing.
“ It’s a talent I’ve always possessed…” sang the candlestick in The Beauty and the Beast animated feature. I feel like I'm tap-dancing; like the dishes.
Truth be told; I feel like the little tea cup.
