gri_2003_m_46_b01_f02_011
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.06
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.035
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- 65315346 - darryluk
- 65326021 - rcohn
- 65344244 - not-logged-in-ab7f19adcc468523d843
- WINNER - 65356572 - gailkoelker
- 65373446 - Sean_Walters89
65315346 - darryluk
My dearest SylviaYou occupy the foreground of my mind: a feeling of hopeless tenderness consumes me. It is difficult to concentrate on reading, on writing, even to you, because it detracts from my concentration on your image, which is especially strong just now.
Your didactic remarks yesterday are producing immediate changes in my behaviour patterns. I went for a two-hour bike-ride this late afternoon (to Hampton Court and discovered a delicious bit of Victorian Gothic in a villa on the way) and have resolved to go to bed early tonight and tomorrow as I am in both evenings. In return you will read The Waste Land for me, won't you?
I saw Molly and told her not to tell Iris anything about us and gave her evidence of Iris' double-dealing. So there is nothing to worry about there. I saw Evelyn McHale, also, and it is alright about Wednesday. So, now, all I have to do is hope my auto-suggestion worked as well as did that of Disney's little mouse in Dumbo. He jumps up on the pillow and whispers into an enormous ear that Dumbo must be given a chance in the circus. (the ear was the ringmaster's.)
This is one of the poems I read you a little time ago:
The still life on the table
Holds skull and book
But the lamp is hidden by the owl's wing
There is only you
That nest of flesh your mouth
And the soft star
Which gives and needs no light
There is nothing else.
Tonight I am thinking about Michael's prediction about our affair. Although all the material opportunity and comfort and so on is on his side I do not believe he is right. You mean so very much to me. I see I am falling into cliches of the love-letter and apologise for it but I must repeat it because it says what I mean in the only way possible outside a poem. I love you.
A tiny prosaic note: we must co-ordinate sandwiches. I'll bring some on Wednesday if you can also do so unless I hear to the contrary.
I LOVE YOU
Lawrence
65326021 - rcohn
SaturdayMy dearest Sylvia:
You occupy the foreground of my mind: a feeling of hopeless tenderness consumes me. It is difficult to concentrate on reading, on writing, even to you, because it detracts from my concentration on your image, which is especially strong just now.
Your didactic remarks yesterday are producing immed-iate changes in my behaviour patterns. I went for a two-hour bike-ride this late afternoon (to Hampton Court and discovered a delicious bit of Victorian Gothic in a villa on the way) and have resolved to go to bed early tonight and tomorrow as I am in both evenings. In re-turn you will read The Waste Land for me, won't you?
I saw Molly and told her not to tell Iris anyting about us and gave her evidence of Iris's double-dealing. So there is nothing to worry about there. I saw Evelyn McHale, also, and it is alright about Wednesday. So, now, all I have to do is hope my auto-suggestion worked as well as did that of Disney's little mouse in Dumbo. He jumps on the pillow and whispers into an enormous ear that Dumbo must be given a chance in the circus. (The ear was the ringmaster's.)
This is one of the poems I read you a little time ago:
The still life on the table
Holds skull and book
But the lamp is hidden by the owl's wing
There is only you
That nest of flesh your mouth
And the soft star
Which gives and needs no light
There is nothing else.
Tonight I am thinking about Michael's prediction about our affairs. Although all the material opportunity and comfort and so on is on his side I do not believe he is right. You mean so very much to me. I see I am falling into the cliches of the love-letter and apologise for it but I must repeat it because it says what I mean in the only way possible outside a poem. I love you.
A tiny prosaic note: we must co-ordinate sandwiches. I'll bring some on Wednesday if you can also do so unless I hear to the contrary.
I LOVE YOU
Lawrence
65344244 - not-logged-in-ab7f19adcc468523d843
[14-3-48]Saturday
My dearest Sylvia:
You occupy the foreground of my mind: a feeling of hopeless tenderness consumes me. It is difficult to concentrate on reading, on writing, even to you, because it detracts from my concentration on your image, which is especially strong just now.
Your didactic remarks yesterday are producing immediate changes in my behaviour patterns. I went for a two-hour bike-ride this late afternoon (to Hampton Court and discovered a delicious bit of Victorian Gothic in a villa on the way) and have resolved to go to bed early tonight and tomorrow as I am in both evenings. In return you will read The Waste Land for me, won't you?
I saw Molly and told her not to tell Iris anything about us and gave her evidence of Iris' double-dealing. So there is nothing to worry about there. I saw Evelyn McHale, also, and it is alright about Wednesday. So, now, all I have to do is hope my auto-suggestion worked as well as did that of Disney's little mouse in Dumbo. He jumps up on the pillow and whispers into an enormous ear that Dumbo must be given a change in the circus. (the ear was the ringmaster's.)
This is one of the poems I read you a little time ago
The still life on the table
Holds skull and book
But the lamp is hidden by the owl's wing
There is only you
That nest of flesh your mouth
And the soft star
Which gives and needs no light
There is nothing else.
Tonight I am thinking about Michael's prediction about our affaire. Although all the material opportunity and comfort and so on is on his side I do not believe he is right. You mean so very much to me. I see I am falling into the cliches of the love-letter and apologise for it but I must repeat it because it says what I mean in the only way possible outside a poem. I love you.
A tiny prosaic note: we must co-ordinate sandwiches. I'll bring some on Wednesday if you can also do so unless I hear to the contrary.
I LOVE YOU
Lawrene
WINNER - 65356572 - gailkoelker
SaturdayMy dearest Sylvia:
You occupy the foreground of my mind: a feeling of hopeless tenderness consumes me. It is difficult to concentrate on reading, on writing, even to you, because it detracts from my concentration on your image, which is especially strong just now.
Your didactic remarks yesterday are producing immediate changes in my behaviour patterns. I went for a two-hour bike-ride this late afternoon (to Hampton Court and discovered a delicious bit of Victorian Gothic in a villa on the way) and have resolved to go to bed early tonight and tomorrow as I am in both evenings. In return you will read the Waste Land for me, won't you?
I saw Molly and told her not to tell Iris anything about us and gave her evidence of Iris' double-dealing. So there is nothing to worry about there. I saw Evelyn McHale, also, and it is alright about Wednesday. So, now, all I have to do is hope my auto-suggestion worked as well as did that of Disney's little mouse in Dumbo. He jumps up on the pillow and whispers into an enormous ear that Dumbo must be given a chance in the circus. (The ear was the ringmaster's).
This is one of the poems I read you a little time ago:
The still life on the table
Holds skull and book
But the lamp is hidden by the owl's wing
There is only you
That nest of flesh your mouth
And the soft star
Which gives and needs no light
There is nothing else.
Tonight I am thinking about Michael's prediction about our affaire. Although all the material opportunity and comfort and so on is on his side I do not believe he is right. You mean so very much to me. I see I am falling into the cliches of the love-letter and aplogise for it but I must repeat it because it says what I mean in the only way possible outside a poem. I love you.
A tiny prosaic note: we must co-ordinate sandwiches. I'll bring some on Wednesday if you can also do so unless I hear to the contrary.
I LOVE YOU
Lawrence
65373446 - Sean_Walters89
[14-3-48]Saturday
My dearest Sylvia:
You occupy the foreground of my mind: a feeling of hopeless tenderness consumes me. It is difficult to concentrate on reading, on writing, even to you, because it detracts from my concentration on your image, which is especially strong just now.
Your didactic remarks yesterday are producing immediate changes in my behavior patterns. I went for a two-hour bike-ride this late afternoon (to Hampton Court and discovered a delicious bit of Victorian Gothic in a villa on the way) and have resolved to go to bed early tonight and tomorrow as i am in both evenings.In return you will read The Waste Land for me, won't you?
I saw Molly and told her not to tell Iris anything about us and gave her evidence of Iris' double-dealing. So there is nothing to worry about there. I was Evelyn McHale, also, and it is alright about Wednesday. So, now, all i have to do is hope my auto-suggestion worked as well as did that of Disney's little mouse in Dumbo. He jumps up on the pillow and whispers into an enormous ear that Dumbo must be given a chance in this circus. (The ear was the ringmaster's)
This is one of the poems I read you a little time ago:
The still life on the table
Holds skull and book
But the lamp is hidden by the owl's wing
There is only you
That nest of flesh your mouth
And the soft star
Which gives and needs no light
There is nothing else.
Tonight I am thinking about Michael's prediction about our affair. Although all the material opportunity and comfort and so on is on his side I do not believe he is right. You mean so very much to me. I see I am falling into the cliches of the love-letter and apologize for it but i must repeat it because it says what I mean in the only way possible outside a poem. I love you.
A tiny prosaic not: we must co-ordinate sandwiches.
I'll bring some one Wednesday if you can also do so unless i hear to the contrary.
I LOVE YOU