Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XIV. [postmark: May 28th, 2015]

Hey, Maria;

Well…?   Nothing?  OK, babe, but consider my invitation standing.  However— as wildly romantic as that would have been— you should probably call first, now.

Too late, now, anyway, move is done.  Finding it even dingier than I told you at first, now that I live there— but had to get out of the old, away from those people, those thems.  The subterranean aspect actually feels better than I worried.  Makes me feel like I’m in my own little cave.

Currently, I’m immersed in this horrible-though-still-improving world where I’m feeling everything I feel with immense intensity; now that I’m feeling anything, I feel everything real hard.  Worst part: when I begin to frustrate, I dwell upon everything that does, and this builds till I’m tied in a knot of frustration in my mind, and have to pull my Camry (2012, canary yellow— yeh-yeAH) to the side of the road for a minute or twelve.  Anyrate, life’s still getting better, but I can’t wait to return to my reserved demeanor, who I was when you knew me, cause I liked that self much better, and I know you liked that me, too.

Elbow feels better.  Guess my motorcycle journey of the spirit may take place, after all.  You should-a come visit me when you had the chance, babe— who knows where I’ll be tomorrow.

later,

Patrick

 

 

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