once upon a time I wrote you a letter, and posted it here. It was a love letter, or rather something similar. I think you can’t write any love letter if you’ve never met your lover, but as you know I’m good at playing any role. When I do something, I mean what I’m doing, even if I’m doing nothing. At least, this will let me be a smart novelist.
You used to be unsatisfied. I mean, even though I spent my hours thinking you were so beautiful, and smart, and sweet, and that I would have killed your boyfriend (soldiers are stupid, you know, it had been a honorable action), take his guts and use them to entertain my cat (of course I’m joking, I wouldn’t do such a senseless thing: my lazy cat wouldn’t spend his time chasing guts), you didn’t trust me when I tried to convey my feelings. You always lamented I didn’t phone you, I didn’t praise you for your beauty, for your smartness, sweetness, I was shifty – and I often asked to myself whether killing your “yes-sir” boyfriend could shut your complaints up.
Nowadays I’m not in love with you, but – I swear – I think of you as a beautiful smart sweet girl, who’s somehow important to me. I’m afraid nothing is really important to me, and as a consequence when I say that someone is important to me I sound a bit cold-hearted, but it’s not your fault, it’s just a matter of relativity. I know you’d be more pleased if, when you phoned me, I thanked you and said that thanks to you I was the happiest person on this earth, but I have limits (and it’s terrible), so, please, trust me when I say I’m happy when you phone me.
Enjoy Byzantium and say “hello” to your boyfriend’s guts.