воскресенье, сентября 18, 2005


my dearest son,
i very nearly wrote nose there, and not son, but you now, thats what age does to a mind, even a mind once sharp, once wickedly sharp, and once very very concerned.
how would you react if i were to say - it serves you right? would you think me very wicked(and not sharp at all)? because it pains me very much to say it, and it pains me even more to admit it is the only answer i can give you.
alas, that is a mothers lot, to raise wicked children, children who simply - can i say it - do not listen.
is it not true that in those years when all others had run past, in those difficult years when all the others had, if i can be so incredibly bold, forsaken you, when a mothers thankless job is at its most tiresome and wickedly thankless, i say, is it not true that even then, you began to show that wicked strain of hardheadedness - even now i want to justify you, after all it is a trait you inherited from your father - that has now, i can say with all certainty, been your downfall.
you cruel stupid man.
but even now, a mothers love is forever, my love does not wane, i find a wave of sympathy yet alive inside me; yes, what is there beside a mothers love? is it not true what they say - he has a face only a mother could love? and is it not true that one could say the same of not only your face - but your character too?! what a foul thing.
i cannot say more right now, i am afraid i am too full of bile and disgust and neither is sitting here to write you doing anything for my legs, i must get up and stretch them.
it serves you right.
your father says hello.
and dont forget to bring those plates you promised(though no doubt youve already forgotten, my wicked son)
love, your mother

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