A letter from the Great Admiral Admiral to his love:
You're playing with me. Using me. Rather, you're letting someone else use me as an pawn. I suppose it would best be said that I am an marionette, with you stringing me along, whilst you allow someone to tell you how to control me. I must tell you though, I am none to appreciative. You see, we puppets, we get to talking sometimes. An good bit of talk of cutting strings. Don't get me wrong, my love, I could never cut my strings. Unattached is a foreign concept to me, and I'll have none of it. I'm just sick and tired of this game. We're into Act III by now, and the whole thing seems to drag on. He has grown tiresome, your fellow. While I cannot cut my strings, I can certainly stiffen my movements and cause the paying folks to leave their seats. No one will see the final act. Ask him to leave and I will put on the most spectacular show you have ever seen; this I can certainly promise.
Oh, and maybe you should stop airing your dirty laundry around the other puppets. They come back reeking of a foul stench, and I pick it up like an disgusting, cheap liquor and simply drink it down. I accept the burn; the poison. We're old friends. But it does tend to make me wild, yes? Your house and furniture can only stand so much, can it not? I will be the end of it all.
One final thing: I've been charting maps. While I'm no cartographer, I do feel that my experience as an admiral does make me quite proficient at this task. Maps of our figures. You see, I need to know how our bodies work. It seems, though, from what I can see, that you only ever begin where I end. It's a map of we. No map of I exists, nor an map of you. Why is it that this is all I come across in an library of thousands of maps? Is it possible that only this map exists of our characters? Will you honestly not accept this? Think on it a bit, my sweet. Surely it will become clear. We pray it's none too late.