Could you only write me every week, or even fortnightly, I shall be so pleased. The melancholy of which you know suffuses like putrid moss on the surface of my heart is weak to the warmth of your words. The other day when I read your letter, it felt as if I could finally escape this loathsome quagmire. I don’t think it was so much the words of encouragement, which has begun to turn dull as stone, as it was the vibrancy with which you wrote those words. It is so natural to your character; that colorful confidence, the debonair that springs over the portholes of life. You never brood unnecessarily over upsetting matters, but always steer toward more radiant waters. Which is why I imagine that if I read enough of your letters, established a frequent enough correspondence, my days shall brighten a great deal.