a letter from an unknown woman

I try to write to you a totally pure letter, but evey time I am starting
with the same expression: I am trying to express unexpressable. I want my
words to you be pure, cleansed from earthly, bodily matters. The last I
would like is to chain you, to put you in the cage of golden words, in the
cage of stereotypes. Maybe I can never write to you as there are never
such bright, cleansed words or thoughts that would come on you as a dear
warm rain. What could ever fit your openly critical and morbid figure. You
fear nothing, you hope nothing, you are free. The other time, something
happened, something was left inside me. I can not call it eternal
sunshine, I can not name it. It is in my blood circle, it is going around
in my body, graveling here and there like a chained dog. It is looking in
the air and saying: why bother meeting, you are like air, always there all
over everything. This is a pillow that I am sleeping on, this is a curtain
in front of my window, this is a night behind my window, this is your
morbid figure in southern night.
One Erasmus person told me that friends are not the ones you can trust.
Maybe indeed the best solution is existing in splendid isolation. Being
together with your soul, being totally honest with yourself. I can not be
honest to you, you are free. To be honest, I didn't ask permission for
these words. I am violent here, writing those words that have been
constatntly repeated and trying to construct something like a letter of
these old, tired words. Please, see me behind those worn out symbols.