To Frau, my imaginary recipient

Doesn’t it all seem so childish? To keep writing about the mess of emotions that is inside myself. And then of you, who as I imagine, has not read a single one of these letters without knowing its true recipient; but always assumed that it is some furtive person from a distant, unknown frame of life. While it is tremendously tempting to place a hint, an obvious enough one, in the middle of this large canvas, and relieve you once and for all of your Snoopy looking-glass, I am convinced that such a move is foolish. A declaration of passion made at the wrong moment can be especially destructive. But this is aside from the point; let us not stray too far from it. The point is, all this rambling is childish. There are a myriad other topics which I can write about, insightful, interesting, intriguing topics, and yet, bluntly, stubbornly, stupidly, I choose to write about a most frivolous matter: the infant longing of the heart. Do you think the same?

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