Goodbye Gertrude

I thought that, before you were mine, the address, which you gave. The goods; it is because they are impossible. So it was said.

Potentially, apart from…

It was all due to the cold mornings of Sundays; It took the sun, It who is increased with the colour of memory, and that Insect put the correct question in the sky. The interior part of my church passes from the timber of oak. It has the white toe of the grave and the person of decisiveness made of marble gel; the marble gel that is finished in the village. I love you in street that is influenced by Noises. OH these noises!   How is it that in the wall that conscientiousness connects me to! The clue is in the table of my fenced brain! The fact: the noises open also from my heart; pour the iron of treatment of rust from the region that is closed! OH these noises! The noises for this Sunday!

Goodbye Gertrude; hello Gregory!

It is, for that sad fact that I imported the virtuous only the morning. Only the impossible imported goods are found. They are potentially only imported since they are regulated. This is a deterrent!  (If it is then it denies that what it is not).

Yours,

Toby

Dear Toby,

I feel that this shall be my last address to you. As to why I cannot say.

Save perhaps this...

It was a cool Sunday morning, the sun rose with a hint of rose and insects were abuzz in the air. As I stepped outside the back oak double-door of my church and into the graveyard, I thought to myself, ''I must see Toby''. I ran past the white tombstones and the porcelain faces of the marble angels, across the village and into your street and then it hit me; the Sound. Oh that Sound! How it grates at the walls of my consciousness! Scratches at the blackboard of my mind! Squeaks open and closed the rust wrought-iron gate of the ante-chamber of my soul! Oh that Sound! And on Sunday!

Goodbye Toby,

I am only sorry that what was was, that what could have been never was, and that what is going to happen might actually happen, for things are as they are (there is no denying that it is).

Yours,

Sadly Yours no-longer,

Gertude.