Dear Ray,
I am writing to you this letter because I simply can't find the way in the situation I am now permanently stuck in. I am not just simply feeling lost, I am physically worn out from the day I started reading your memoirs. I can't sleep more than nine hours on my only week-end days - I wake up with your songs in my head and start thinking about the bunch of various, useless things and I just can't help myself from doing it. I walk a lot. Especially at night. I walk and walk and walk and listen to your music and try not to lose my senses and not to collapse. I lost interest in art. I don't find cinema that fulfilling as I did. And that's a catastrophe for me because my most dating dream is to become a film director. Books don't tempt me not even to read them by to buy them in the stores. I find education not beneficial for anyone and particularly for me at all. And I can't write. Everything I write doesn't satisfy me - neither prose nor poetry, and that is the worst part. I try and try and try and only waste time and storage on my tablet. As if I was a nimphonaniac who simply lost her ability to have orgasm but she still fucks and fucks and fucks with everyone. I feel like you are fucking me actually. Like you are raping me in the slyest and the most obscene manner and I cry and moan out of disgust and pain but you do not stop. Because there is a side of me who absolutely loves it and like a puppy waves her tail every time you touches me. "He touched her perfect body with his mind", that's what Leonard Cohen writes and sings about but it is nothing like us. My body is not perfect and you a dirty and selfish and contagious bugger. Did you make me ill or did you make me realise how ill I am? Probably both. Another issue is that I even can't hate you. I can hate R.W. who brought so much clarity to my life but now you who on the contrary messed my head and left me in this confused and deranged state of mind. I even can't finish your book - the last 100 words serve me as a guarantee of your presence in my life, my head and my hands, as the only connection between you and me that I've ever had. I am so terrified of the prospect of you cheating on me again at the end of the book, of you leaving me even more dazed and twisted, of me being even more lost and lonesome. Please, be gentle to me. Please, give the answer and the way from that maze of both your and my heads that you dragged me in. Did I want you to do this? It doesn't matter, I let you to do with me anything you liked and you disfigured me like I am a weak child. Please, please, please, don't let me down again. I am so scared.
Yours sincerely,
Sibyl "Death Of A Clown" Vane