If one is to count the words of her letter, therein lies a sweet pocket world mid seven and eight:
'...Soot-covered sparrow I heard call in your voice...'
Virginia writes like she paid eons for the license of Sentence, is already indebted to a bigger force
Skipping through prose as one does pebbles over a pond, ebbing through currents with esoteric grace - breaking vowel and rhythm into nuggets of Sound, to forthbring, if for a few hours only, an absolute beauty.
Birdsong in a pine tree on a summer night: her toes in the water, her thoughts to me at best an educated guess... now, the envelope, my name jotted down with a glitter gel pen;
Were she of an other essence! Haply armed with golden ink - and maybe, were she given the choice, she would never have chosen to become the wax seal on a painting, my clever Virginia.
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