My dear, Let it drain from you your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness…. Let it kill you, and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. Falsely yours, Henry Charles...

My dear, Sometimes when you get the blues there might be a damned good reason. When those dark nights creep upon your soul and you feel like all’s not so good; when you turn to your friends and family, asking them what’s wrong with the world, and they look at you like you’re crazy; when you hold yourself close because somehow you, for a tragic brief second, felt the emotion of the world, pain, pain from something large...

My dear, Little girls grow into women, little boys into men, and on the way some lose. Some lose all mind and become soul, insane. Some lose all soul and become mind, intellectual. Some lose both and become accepted. And some walk the tightrope. Falsely yours, Henry Charles...

My dear, Don’t listen to your parents. We are not here to become doctors, or a lawyers, or a whatevers. Or poets, or artist, or whoevers. We are not obliged to help anyone if we truly don’t want to, and we shouldn’t if we don’t want to. We are not here to change the world, we are a small species on a small planet, in a small galaxy, of a much bigger design. We are not here to change things, unless we want to. We are...