Francis,
I ought not to write to thee at all, for every line I've spent is a waste of ink and patience alike. Do not let it swell thou monstrous ego, but I confess that I miss thee.
I miss thy laughter, thy ridiculous smelling perfume, thy nimble fingers in my hair.
Thou are vain, insufferable and far too fond of thyself yet the years have cast thee in familiarity that I just cant set aside, no matter how much thou provoke me to murder.
Do not mistake this for softness. Thou are still the most vain, exasperating demon. The others would call me soft for writing such mush, so I trust thou possess the decency to not blast and tease.
Return soon, thee damned frog.
Sincerely, Arthur .K













