R:"I am writing to you on this tear soaked paper, on a fairly old fashion letter, seeking closure. I confine alongside this letter my jornal and the video collection which I gathered on this two years of research. The full spec of the latter is on it's entire measure contained within my mind but for the results none matters less that to prevent more corruption. One could wish you not to think less then me were you to choose deliver the materiel to it's original purpose or a vicious sneak peak before erasing the data but regardless I express my feelings towards a most loyal friend and companion on struggling years as a young student. Cheers? Oh there is no joy in the walking dead. The screaming again, the tender headache.."
More alike blood, dry and filthy bounding with the ink. Misguided one might whisper were they to dare! And who would dare, ignorant and blissful as I once were. Pff a letter.. a long streetch, a mile long and selfish! Oh..but I surely cannot, what to do what to do.
I too must now search a meaning, an explanation! Is this sweat? Oh my, has my heart decided to race my breath pace? This sweaty hands, this very hands can barely contain the wonders yet to unfold. To question change, the brutal odd book, guilt, that has invaded me. It is strange and that, as if I were yet to become aware, hadn't been able to grasp beyond the common sense, grounds of reality, basic bases of walking arousal eh, eh? Mine, they could had been mine.
How long had it been. Firstoff, how should one account one on this matter..on a dry and cold process of calculation towards worth, reationships, further and beyond, it were always the little things eh, eh? Am I by chance over thinking it? Could this be an overreaction, some sort of contained panic attack? Rose... certainly that name revived all sorts of feelings, the old flame, she did tear me up by that wonderful sole gesture of existance eh, eh, eh. How naive, or selfish of me though, right? Surely it was my lack of interaction that provided what I now foresee as my own demise. She would not like this one bit.
She must never find out. I recall, I guess, alarmed by the goose bumps of an break up. Explaining the crate were not for the strike of luck timed on it's arrival colliding with..she is my wife and yet this decision, which I am yet to make, haunts me, forcing almost a scheme, a double life upon me. For now I.. store the "delivery" on my office and manage to work on clock overtime on her's.. I suppose dying wish. Certainly I haven't stashed it away in secrecy, or hide it afar from curious eyes but... it's due to a third party privacy issues, of course, of course...
Mary cannot, never ever find out. The nature of this documents are incriminating to say the least. The tapes.. excluiding the video logs are of severe topic. As a writher I hold not the required training, or was my passion, no, my gender weakness set alouse by her moans, the begging eyes glued to the screen, a bending back engulped by the thrusts. The urge, several to be fair, repulse me so. I feel taken, possessed. She is all I think about as I take her into my arms at night, when at last I return to the nest, a lost soul pale or grey. My mind feels dizzy, I am but a distant harmful man, confused and rethinking the decisions, an upcoming 30's year crisis! Her words...I swear those are not mine, harmful, so...harmful.
She says my words do not match my eyes, the reactions, the desire that overtakes me is fueled by another, for sure! As surely as she know me I lie when I deny. Crying demands, an explanation, is, who, why is there another? How much longer can I possibly play his charade? The diary passages take hold of my sleep, shaping my dreams, filling what should just be hollow words.
to be continue
