Dear Friend not yet,
Do not you pretend to know me, or what of that I do? My solitude does bare me; it is not one that is cruel. In darkness I find that which cheats the night, and words escape another who must surely have some light.
My friends in silence speek to me quietly and with great care. Words that flow so swiftly, words no others dare. And I keep these in the darkest-day, when the clouds cry out so loud. Thunder rends the silence and breaks the silver cloud.
No, not sickness of the solitude--dare I be so remorse. Silence is my gratitude and words fly out--due course. My friend, not yet, and so you think of me--foreigner--person I--a husband-less wife.
Emily.
