Rubbing Palms And Whispering Lies

Crafting letters is a primitive art. Notwithstanding best attempts we are unable to beckon sense and coherence to articulate all the infinite things we desire to disclose. November is looming and it’s somehow saddening, thinking that we may be incapable of honoring our fervent affections. Apologies are needless; they are but mere words dispelled to cloak our consummate fears. So we decline in secret, warming our hands and whispering lies.