An open love letter

Dear Ms. X.,

Though I am wealthy and clean, I am infatuated with dirt and squalor.

I wish to make love to you, jubilantly, beneath a yellow moon, amidst a pile of rats, dirt, and bones. Meet me in the graveyard and wear your finest clothes. I will sing to you a lullaby--a dark lullaby, one where sleep is the facsimile of death. I will sing to you in whispers so my voice does not drown out my breath.

The next day we will be precious. We will sip upon tea and munch upon cucumber sandwiches. We will pretend we are not beasts. Ms. X, shall we speak of our erotic graveyard life or shall we leave it unperverted by words, untainted by the sun? Often I have asked this question and I have decided that, like most questions, the answer does not matter.

Fly falcon fly! Search out those souls who are both filthy and pure. Fetch for me the plain and complicated truth and a woman landscaped with curves. Let her have the smile of an angel in mid-fall.

I haven't had a drink in days. I feel like the Overman--powerful and suffering. Am I happy in this state, or have I, in fact, transcended happiness and entered the world of ambiguous beauty? Well, clearly I am unhappy, but clearly am I fool? Not to me. Haha!

I have spent too much time alone--meet me beneath the moon, where words are like witches' spells. Diagnose my madness with your touch--it is not the kind you'll find in books.*

Lasciviously yours,

The Orphic Man

*Search high and low, you will not find me in your DSM IV.