"What illusions you wound yourself, in the indifferent hours of the night? Appropriate of the time, since you've earned nothing but shadow. These
words, dressed in the finery of imagination, as beautiful (and fragile) that they may be - are false. You, then, are the same, are you not either shadow or falseness?
I would ask you to question your reality. How could you know something with such permanence, with such tangibility? My answer is sir, your nature is askew. Shadow has no permanence - tangibility is modal. You have something or you do not. Such is love. It is shared [a fundamental misunderstanding for your ilk] - you don't seem to get this. You. You in your bell jar casting webs that cling to themselves. Did you honestly believe that I could feel them? That there was some magical thread that can bind us together - what were it true.
Keep to your world and stay you from mine. My world is reality; it has substance. I want to feel the wind and sun upon my face and the grass under my feet. I don't want a treatise on the matter. Nor would I want to cast a pale light of reflection for a day. You could never offer me that. Yours is words, empty and, worst above all, alone. Poetry is the language of loneliness - those that pine for all, but do nothing but fetter away their breath 'in love'.
How do you live this way? Honestly? You say your passion is a tide, that your love is unending. What energies do you expense in this prattle? As kind as you may be sir, I find this whole matter sad.
Give them to me not [the items encapsulated herein this box]. I cannot use them. Do not use me as a caricature in your stories. I shall know. Do not think of me again. I will certainly not of you."
[The box sits unopened.]
