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It is fiercely storming outside, as I sit here at
my desk, facing the large window in my den. The rain seems to mock my tears as they fall to wet the pages of your letter.
The lightening adds light to my candle as I read your clever words. It is just a few years after the death of the ingenious
Percy Bysshe Shelley. I much admired his work; what a horrible death to die by water. The water that is drowning
me tonight is much my own fault. I, Steven Spearen, deserve all the torment I receive. Only a creature of water
could be so cold as to do what I have done. I am frozen water, hard and icy cool.
I remember the starry night when last I saw
you, and the action that brought me to be the bearer of this letter. That night was a peaceful night, where the crickets
were chirping, and you looked so lovely as I met you at your house to escort you to a social gathering. We had been
invited to the house of our mutual friends Morgan and Faye Winter. As you know, Morgan is in the creative field of acting,
but was lucky enough to marry well. He often holds gatherings, sharing his wife's luxury, flittering it away.
All very natural in the turn of events, but the gathering itself was something of an unnatural essence, and it was this unnatural
essence that brought me to my terrible action.
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