This night, in my lonely room, underneath the pale candlelight, I start to write a letter.
The window offers me nothing to see. There are no stars in the sky, no moonlight to caress the streets, only the dark sky of clouds; invisible clouds, merged with the neverending darkness. Until this night, I spoke and I spoke, but there was no response. It is time, I feel, to write it all down. Ink is heavy and black, not as fleeting as the spoken words. Voice is made of feathers, it flutters away, disappears in the vast void of the universe. Voice is easily smothered by noise; howls of wind, tapping of raindrops. Rain and wind sound softer than what I have to say, there is false comfort in the forces of nature.
It starts to rain now, as I write, to the one who will care to read. To a friend who is dear and kind, understanding. To someone who doesn’t exist.