Guess the letter (I)

You always hanked oo much, and

hought oo much and 

played oo much, and your playfulness 

would be your downfall

when you planned his IT-ed

machination against me – as 

big as wo any female beloved 

proudly carried 

ever.

And if you hought you might

do some good with your 

op-down procrastinations

and the above-mentioned clever ITs,

and your ever so wise iming and

shining and 

limiting as his, and

he brotherhood which 

clearly never really 

was, and he friendship which would

never stand the est of any 

ime, nor any rhyme nor

any way nor any

why, nor any ry you ever

attempted to fly out of

he goodness you never were

able to manifest, because 

it was just all oo close o

he fatherhood you always have

rejected – even as he behaviours

of such you have 

readily embraced in your

control and oll over 

me, and lately ain’t it just rue – and 

how you 

broil me in cauldron 

of family strain: hat virus of

silence and enigmatic 

resistance, cruel and cold and

definitely untouched 

by general humanity … and how hose

houghts have given way

and gone away

and done away

with he love you once

pretended o sense …

… and ain’t it rue, ain’t it rue

by God; by God ain’t it

rue!

And he worst of it now is I long done 

with missing you,

oo long ago o care or want 

o share or be aware, no

more; and I done 

with missing you even a bitty grit, 

and what’s more, 

he ears no 

longer flow in remembrance 

of the attempts at 

generosity which 

at least once seemed o define you,

in some way which I’m sure, I freely

admit, 

I had managed 

o admire.

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