And I would tell you, dear procrastinator, about him and the woes which surround himself and myself.
But Alas, that would be weird.
So instead I shall speak in an awkward and strained, vague tongue, so that I may look dear Ahab in the eye again and not feel yet more guilt.
Consider this, O intimate friend, an exercise in self-expression - which, due to my British heritage, I have naturally lacked since birth - and a reconciliation of heart and fingers.
Separated by near every conceivable social constraint (and your own indifference, admittedly) I stand a figure below the cliffs, hazy in the fog as you come into harbour on your worn whaling boat. A brief periphery. Irrelevant and quiet, but peaceful only because there be no words that could change a thing. It is said the sailors could smell the perfume of their ladies of Salem even whilst amidst the tumult. But where does that leave me, if not sitting quietly on the rocks, the tips of my dress wet in the swash, and waiting aimlessly for no one.
Yet perhaps this bough tearing in through the mist is but a mirage - a nod from Above, a reminder to keep watch and faith, as if there can be two marvelous people on earth, then there can certainly be three.
Therein, I shall sit still and enjoy your coming and going, Ahab, from my harbour, and wait for a seaman of my own to part the waters.
