Monday, August 10, 1970

Fig. 007

This is a letter from the great Admiral Admiral to his love upon her return from space:

My dearest,

I am not haunted. You are not my lover. We fell apart long ago. Remember, it's as I told the boy. You left me behind. I mean, sure. I didn't really destroy everything. Maybe I made all that shit up. You know I need you to be capable of such an end. I can't die without you. And I can't kill you, so I'm stuck just living on. This really is your fault. You know that right? You put us here. You never should have ended things with me. That's what built this passion. You should have given me everything I wanted. Your body. I needed you. You were supposed to be a snack of sorts. Just one little nibble, then it was on to the next one. But I couldn't have you. That made two. And I picked one. But even after all this time, can you still not give yourself to me? I've seen it, but can I really not touch? Your breast, so round and perfect, not too large and amazingly perky, beckons to me. You figure, as if it were sculpted by God himself, beckons to me. I have lusted far too long. I am almost ready to just take it. Fret not, my love. We know it is no longer a matter of lust. I need you so much closer. Every passing year our link grows. I practically am you, now. The deeper in love I go, the more in lust you become. It is now I who must turn you away. It has become a disgusting game of hard to get. I can't have you because you do not love me. You cannot have me because you do not love me. I wish you'd stayed out to space. Oh, and there you are. I suppose I'll seal this up and hand it to you then. Oh, one last thing. Ignore the man with the blade. He only wants to help us make things better. You'll live. I cannot allow him to kill you. But you'll feel once more. You'll feel as you've never felt before.

Forever yours,
Admiral Admiral