Dear friend of my heart,

I got rid of the clock on the wall long ago. My wrists have been bare for longer. There is another though, perpetually on my person; a reminder of mortality, of fragility, of ephemerality. My heartbeat unlike the absent monotonous machine on the wall slows down when soothed by quiet afternoons without a purpose other than a gentle stream of words from the substance of my soul. It paces up dangerously when the song of her arrival makes my spirit rise up in storm and stress. I fear for my heart but only after it has already been laid bare to the enticing winds and wily currents of her whimsy, for it is the whimsy of this world that seems to have a hold on me and not the monotony of day-to-day servitude.

Seasons have been strange this year. Everyone seems to know who is to blame. They are wrong though. I know who has confused the seasons. It was her with her changing temperatures and me with the clouds of my melancholy. We are to blame. We broke the clocks and seasons.

I wish for many things. One wish is to write to you more often, and another is to hear from you.
Yours in enchantment,
Prashant