My dearest Hanlore,
One week has come since the skies became dark. A week since the large ball of fire was put out like a see-gar on the ashtray of existence. And I long for your embrace. Or maybe I long for the warmth of the sun. My crotch continues to itch and I spend the majority of the time I am not writing to you going through my hairs with a small brush. I still wonder if you were truthful when telling me you did not stray beyond our matrimony whilst on your voyage to Buenos Aires. I take you at your word, but the itch is neverending.
Oh, my love, I miss with the same continuity the lightest of drizzles has enveloped the atmosphere since the sun last shone. I just hope this infernal itching will subside.
All my love,
Nooners