My own boy
It feels oddly safe, writing these letters whose existence you are unaware of. I do not think I will ever tell you about these letters. And there is, of course, noone else that can understand them. No need for this funereal congregation, the sparse audience of my demolition, my holocaust.
I have written so much to you elsewhere. So much, and so packed, that I thought it was a finegan in progress. Until I realised, late last night, while my body was aching with sehnsucht, that it was a leviathan I had created instead. A pointless leviathan.
No letters would have needed to be written, no novels, no poems. No portraits would have needed to have been painted. If you had ever wanted me.