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.