At 11:06a, I sent my Letter to the Man across the Sea

Open. That's one word I absolutely can no longer stand. You were one of my Five.

I hope things are going along well with your plans, for you are and always have been an ambitious boy, so restless, so unafraid. But because of that, you remained one the Five, ever dear and ever loved.

Last year, what I had not expected was this. I was happy but that was taken away, quite cruelly, in fact. But Four of you were there. But then it was You and I left on this desolate continent while Three had to be contented with the Sweet Sun of Italia and the Old Culture of the British Isles. Little did I know that you were going to join them.

No, I do not hate you. Quite contrary, actually. I had promised never again because of him, for you and others know how much he had meant. But I am young and fickle, and you had grown on me. You still are. And now I despise the word open. It only leaves a dry, dead husk of what was once something I contented myself with, comforted myself with.

You know I'm impatient, so hurry and succeed. I'm waiting.

--

And that's enough of that. That, I confess, was something I'm not entirely used to. Why? Because I'm an angry little girl who seeks nothing more in life but simplicity and happiness. No more complications please. Just bring him home.