The 17th of October 1943 – Norman, Oklahoma

(found in the midst of a pile of the old things)

Dear Jackson,

I’ve been dreaming about her too much.

I can’t tell you exactly what those dreams are about. I can’t exactly tell you, and I can’t exactly remember, either. But they are about her.

The warmth, they’re about that. The serenity. The peace.

I wonder if they’re lies. The more I think about them, the more I think about those dreams, the more I begin to think that they’re all just lies.

Not big lies, not completely artificial and constructed fictions, but half-truths, mis-tellings of the truth, personal liberties that I’ve taken which blur the line between reality and artifice.

At the end of the day (that horrid cliché!) the only one you live with is yourself. So you become a sycophant, and only to the self. The good was always good. It was better. It was the best. There were moments, I’m telling you that there were moments, when the world stopped moving just so it could properly acknowledge our beauty.

And the bad, it was rare. It was blameless, or – at least – certainly not my blame to bear. I lay the faults at the feet of another because it is my prerogative to do so. This is my narrative – and that’s all it was, all it will be – I can write however I please.

But I’ve been dreaming about her too much, and as nice as life has been, these dreams are powerful, and they are enticing. I want them to be true.

How else can heaven exist?

I hope to hear from you soon.

Best,

Milton

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