Blessed be the weight of the late summer nights that force sweat to subside, blessed be the intensity of the sun's rays and the moist air of the seaside for my husband cannot smoke his tabacco in peace. And as promised by god and the spirits before him, cold winter nights will end, and the sun will rise, no longer digging it's heels in spite and the laws by which nature obides will snuff out the flames in front of the faces of men we despise. Dear Emily, I am writing to you to confide in you for I have done the unspeakable...even the feint illumination of the waxing moon will unveil my sins against that man, the pitch black darkness throws it's blanket over me, and I cower in fear of the truth that the candle of a curious passerby may reveal.
