Dear Miss Stainton,
This is one of many letters I am currently writing as I lay here on this bed of death, a bed which insists on engraving my back with the poems of John Dryden. Yes, that is indeed correct, I am dying. I can't begin to imagine the amount of tears that must be streaming from your face as you read this, but for the sake of your dignity please stop.
Your face lacks attractiveness with your best smile-filled face on, so to let people be given the possibility of perhaps seeing your crying face would be a great shame upon your friends and loving family.
I will herby declare my dying last wish to you, to never be seen crying again. Potentially quit crying for good within your life. I remember when we were both young once upon a time, we would run through the woods away from the beastly inhabitants which stalked our every move, within our imaginations that is. At that age your face was of a rather good standard, actually perhaps 'rather good' is minutely excessive in this case.
However your face looks, there is no doubt that you are one brilliant friend I am dearly fond of, a friend I am proud to have spent many a afternoons by your side.
I understand this letter may be short and sweet, but in my old, soon to be forever closed eyes, I see it only accentuates in a metaphorical sense the way I will always see you.
Mr Henry Adam Wood
P.S. Perhaps a face mask of some sort could serve you well.
Created: Mar 11, 2014LewisHaynes Document Media