Except nothing about this could ever feel routine. Not when these letters have suddenly jumpstarted life out of the indistinguishable grey blur it had become: unchanging, monotonous, drab, quiet, only punctuated by the occasional violent mission, all blood and bullets and getting outnumbered and in over his head, and yet he found himself yearning for the battles just to have the change of pace. But nowadays, he yearns for the sound of the mail van pulling up and the clunk of letters going into the box. Sometimes he's started beating Pogo out there in the mornings, to be rewarded with an extremely aggrieved butler, chiding Master Luther! that he's far above a menial errand like taking in the mail.
Don't worry about it, Pogo, and Luther's already tucking the envelope into the breast pocket of his blazer, like a secret. Like the worst-kept secret. The best-kept. His only secret.
Truth be told, it's a lifeline. )
Dear Allison,
Speak of the devil and Shakespeare— If somebody's already got a perfect name like Beatrice, why in the world would you legally change it? Guess there's no accounting for taste.
That's a shame about the concerts, though. I'd hoped that maybe hearing music live instead of on a record would be thrilling, transcendent, life-changing, irreplaceable, whatever. If we ever wind up at the same concert somehow, sometime, I'll try not to spill beer on your shoes. You'd have to teach me the Tinsel Town ways. I keep trying to imagine what it's like and what sort of things you do for fun and how you kill time when you're not on set — the paparazzi cover some of it, but finding out through those magazines doesn't exactly feel right. So. Tell me what you get up to?
And I'll stay tuned once the show's out.
Your number one fan, - L.
PS: Okay, so who else? A brooding Scottish laird, maybe? We have the tartan but I don't have the kilt.
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Except nothing about this could ever feel routine. Not when these letters have suddenly jumpstarted life out of the indistinguishable grey blur it had become: unchanging, monotonous, drab, quiet, only punctuated by the occasional violent mission, all blood and bullets and getting outnumbered and in over his head, and yet he found himself yearning for the battles just to have the change of pace. But nowadays, he yearns for the sound of the mail van pulling up and the clunk of letters going into the box. Sometimes he's started beating Pogo out there in the mornings, to be rewarded with an extremely aggrieved butler, chiding Master Luther! that he's far above a menial errand like taking in the mail.
Don't worry about it, Pogo, and Luther's already tucking the envelope into the breast pocket of his blazer, like a secret. Like the worst-kept secret. The best-kept. His only secret.
Truth be told, it's a lifeline. )
Speak of the devil and Shakespeare— If somebody's already got a perfect name like Beatrice, why in the world would you legally change it? Guess there's no accounting for taste.
That's a shame about the concerts, though. I'd hoped that maybe hearing music live instead of on a record would be thrilling, transcendent, life-changing, irreplaceable, whatever. If we ever wind up at the same concert somehow, sometime, I'll try not to spill beer on your shoes. You'd have to teach me the Tinsel Town ways. I keep trying to imagine what it's like and what sort of things you do for fun and how you kill time when you're not on set — the paparazzi cover some of it, but finding out through those magazines doesn't exactly feel right. So. Tell me what you get up to?
And I'll stay tuned once the show's out.
Your number one fan,
- L.
PS: Okay, so who else? A brooding Scottish laird, maybe? We have the tartan but I don't have the kilt.