My dear Sophie,
Our heaven is burning. But was it ever even a heaven? It is still ours anyway. So what do we do now?
Letters written to the world to help our burning heaven never reach their destination, but may be because there wasn’t one anyway.
Only this letter will reach. Not that it is intentional this way but it is really choice less. As soon as it started writing itself, it reached you.
So what do we now? The poet of the burning heaven has starved himself to a death of art. He is not writing a letter. Even if it reaches us today, he has not written that letter. He is now of the fire that has disfigured him. His poems are now not from his burning roses. They are now of the pyre our world without a postal address created. We will never hear his song again. We will hear his composed music. I break into many little pieces of him everyday.
The poetesses who left Eze for alien countries are writing letters to each other and sliding them under the doors of their pink walled homes lit up by foreign fireflies and very loud with songs of Frida. It is good to not rely on the postal service these days.
Post man has gone invasive. He opened your last letter to me and tried to cage your words in his prison handmade by him to capture all the exotic birds he says. He claims to be a native and must protect his eco-system he says.
Luckily you only write of one woman prayer that can never be locked down. How can water be ever locked down? It is on its way to our burning heaven.
Anyway, poetesses are writing letters which you and me shall never see. They are in their own quiet way posting letters to each other day and night and making a quiet revolution that will get the poet to sing again perhaps someday.
But you write to me, my Sophie, because everything else is just air anyway. Write to me only. Tell me about your water.
Votre ami dévoué