Perhaps all these writings are nothing, my dear, but to ask you to respect me more. Perhaps these words click nothing to you, and I am still asking for your respect. It might be nice thing to find a place for me in your heart that I might deserve and you are denying yourself the beauty of it. Perhaps, you did not have to disappoint me so oftenest you did it – with no compassion, almost with a perceived ruthlessness. Perhaps at last, the wisdom would suggest you to handle me more diligently, with some foresight, and in a just and honorable manner. We would not need someone to meddle between us like I thought once. I still have not lost the hopes that you are incapable of this.

I like to stand in the balcony facing the city, whole lots of people facing me, and command them; “Thee shall adore Freedom but can’t if thee interfere within other’s life!”

Though in past, early months I met you, things were different and feelings were bad and heartbreaking. But that is gone with the wind. And once gone, it is gone and not a thing one can do to have it back. There is nothing to replace a moment one captured of the whiff of a red rose that now is withered under merciless of heat and realities. Often accidental, often short live and illusionary, the feelings one may have for someone is as easily as that rose could be shattered under harsh reality of life. The only reward is good memories that last and that is a pleasant thing for any man to hold. Like I do about you.

So the memories for us are actually nothing but those temporal pictures that are registered by now and of them, one could give rebirth to life and to craft them if he has to – just for the sake to attain the art and fullest beauties of life. The luckiest of us are those who have tons of good and pretty memories of others and hearts and places. It is a heavenly thing on earth; good memories, that is.

It is Thursday and it feels a very dumb Thursday here – not eventful and when Thursdays here are so slow and dragging the last thing one wants is a voice of a woman, a white woman talking non-stop in phone and soon you hear she is about to hang up the phone her cell goes off. So, you reach your classical CD in dismal and put the earphone and solicit affection from sprites of Vienna and of Mozart

But that is a Thursday that is slow and uneventful. On regular Thursday here, not whole lot things more going, things are slightly better in that she is not here and though you still may reach for Mozart but your mind could be on literature of Faulkner and Faulkner and his Yoknapatawpha County.

Nancy looked at us. Her eyes went fast, like she was afraid there wasn’t time to look, without hardly moving at all. She looked at us, at all three of us at one time. “You member that night I stayed in yawls’ room?” she said. She told about how we waked up early the next morning, and played. We had to play quiet, on her pallet, until Father woke up and it was time to get breakfast. “Go and ask your maw to let me stay here tonight,” Nancy said. “I won’t need no pallet. We can play some more.”

Caddy asked Mother. Jason went too. “I can’t have Negroes sleeping in the bedrooms,” Mother said. W. Faulkner, That Evening Sun