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  1. 65857095 - not-logged-in-ae2381e5e5b526589433
  2. WINNER - 65949974 - pleiades33
  3. 66072741 - Preacher357
  4. 66087371 - srasg56
  5. 66416078 - not-logged-in-939538ab60c3411bfee1
  6. 66679785 - Kelvets

65857095 - not-logged-in-ae2381e5e5b526589433

Blackheath
11 ix 1950

Dearest Sylvia,

Brighton: thoughts of you were strong in the geometric-
al streets and crescents and squares and in the pavilion.
When I was on the front I visualised you in the same place
in the past, a past from which I was absent. Apart from
erotic imaginings of you in the places I was in I also
saw the architecture with your eyes, and your taste, or
as imperfectly as I have acquired appreciation of Regen-
cy design from your beautiful example. Past and present
were tangled in my reactions. Apart from this compound
of taste aroused by you and desire for you there were many
strange contrasts. Ilsa Rodmell turns out to be closely
reliant on the cards, fortune tellers, and sorcery gener-
ally (she is, nonetheless, a good painter) : we had a seance
which was a complex failure in every experiment, except that
Bernard was half-hypnotised and remembered a childhood
nightmare. She read the cards and told me about the two
(and I quote) women in my life: 'yes, yes' , I said, 'how
did you know'. And the medium, who works on West Pier,
in the day-time projected (sic) himself to finding out about
me and found a dog (very strongly, he said, he got a dog).
We slept in Catt's garrett ( he is in Paris himself), the
bed was uncomfortable and sordid but Catt's friend Victor,
an ex-prisoner of war, now a farm worker, was charming and
made us as comfortable as possible. I went to the art
gallery as you recommended and admired, though hastily,
the Willett collection of ceramics but spent most time in
the picture gallery: yes, I remarked the 2 Luca Giordano
oils, and saw the newly discovered Constable portrait, and
admired once again the superb Florentine Rape of Helen which
I feel convinced is by The Master of the Judgement of Paris,
don't you think?

Don't worry about my birthday: it is not the 14th, it
is the 17th. But since it is so dynamic in your memory I
wish you would not worry about it. I enclose my new poem
and have nearly finished another. I love you dearly,
Lawrence

I love you, so much, my Muse, I adore youamore

WINNER - 65949974 - pleiades33

I love you, so much, my Muse, I adore you, Lawrence

Blackheath
11 ix 1950

Dearest Sylvia,

Brighton: thoughts of you were strong in the geometrical streets and crescents and squares and in the pavilion. When I was on the front I visualized you in the same place in the past, a past from which I was absent. Apart from erotic imaginings of you in the places I was in I also saw the architecture with your eyes, and your taste, or as imperfectly as I have acquired appreciation of Regency design from your beautiful example. Past and present were tangled in my reactions. Apart from this compound of taste aroused by you and desire for you there were many strange contrasts. Ilsa Rodmell turns out to be closely reliant on the cards, fortune tellers, and sorcery generally (she is, nonetheless, a good painter): we had a seance which was a complex failure in every experiment, except that Bernard was half-hypnotized and remembered a childhood nightmare. She read the cards and told me about the two (and I quote) women in my life: 'yes, yes', I said, 'how did you know'. And the medium, who works on West Pier, in the day-time projected (sic) himself to finding out about me and found a dog (very strongly, he said, he got a dog). We slept in Catt's garrett (he is in Paris himself), the bed was uncomfortable and sordid but Catt's friend Victor, an ex-prisoner of war, now a farm worker, was charming and made us as comfortable as possible. I went to the art gallery as you recommended and admired, though hastily, the Willett collection of ceramics but spent most time in the picture gallery: yes, I remarked the 2 Luca Giordano oils, and saw the newly discovered Constable portrait, and admired once again the superb Florentine Rape of Helen which I feel convinced is by The Master of the Judgement of Paris, don't you think?

Don't worry about my birthday: it is not the 14th, it is the 17th. But since it is so dynamic in your memory I wish you would not worry about it. I enclose my new poem and have nearly finished another. I love you dearly,
Lawrence

66072741 - Preacher357

I love you, so much, my Muse, I adore you Lawrence
Blackheath 11 ix 1950
Dearest Sylvia,

Brighton: thoughts of your were strong in the geometric-
al streets and crescents and squares and in the pavilion.
When I was on the front I visualised you in the same place
in the past, a past from which I was adsent. Apart from
erotic imaginings of you in the places I was in I also
saw the architecture with your eyes, and your taste, or
as imperfectly as I have acquired appreciation of Regen-
cy design from your beautiful example. Past and present
were tangled in my reactions. Apart from this compound
of taste aroused by you and desire for you there were many
strange contrasts. Ilsa Rodmell turns out to be closely
reliant on the cards, fortune tellers, and sorcery gener-
ally (she is, nonetheless, a good painter): we had a seance
which was a complex failure in every experiment, exept that Bernard was half-hypnotised and remembered a childhood
nightmare. She read the cards and told me about the two
(and I quote) women in my life: 'yes yes', I said, 'how
did you know'. And the medium, who works on the West Pier,
in the day-time projected (sic) himself to finding out about
me and found a dog (very strongly, he said, he got a dog).
We slept in Catt's garrett (he is in Paris himself), the
bed was uncomfortable and sordid but Catt's friend Victor,
an ex-prisoner of war, now a farm worker, was charming and
made us as comfortable as possible. I went to the art
gallery as you recommended and admired, though hastily,
the Willett collection of ceramics but spent most time in
the picture gallery: yes, I remarked the 2 Luca Giordano
oils, and saw the newly discovered Constable portrait, and
admired once again the superb Florentine Rape of Helen, which
I feel convinced is by The master of the Judgment of Paris,
don't you think?

Don't worry about my birthday: it is not the 14th, it
is the 17th. But since it is so dymatic in your memory I
wish you would not worry about it. I enclose my new poem
and have nearly finished another. I love you dearly,
Lawrence

66087371 - srasg56

I love you, so much, my Muse, I adore you
Lawrence

Blackheath
11 ix 1950
Dearest Sylvia,
Brighton: thoughts of you were strong in the geometric-
al streets and crescents and squares and in the pavilion.
When I was on the front I visualised you in the same place
in the past, a past from which I was absent. Apart from
erotic imaginings of you in the places I was in I also
saw the architecture with your eyes, and your taste, or
as imperfectly as I have acquired appreciation of Regen-
cy design from your beautiful example. Past and present
were tangled in my reactions. Apart from this compound
of taste aroused by you and desire for you there were many
strange contrasts. Ilsa Rodmell turns out to be closely
reliant on the cards, fortune tellers, and sorcery gener-
ally (she is, nonetheless, a good painter): we had a seance
which was a complex failure in every experiment, except that
Bernard was half-hypnotised and remembered a childhood
nightmare. She read the cards and told me about the two
(and I quote) women in my life: 'yes, yes', I said, 'how
did you know'. And the medium, who works on West Pier,
in the day-time projected (sic) himself to finding out about
me and found a dog (very strongly, he said, he got a dog).
We slept in Catt's garrett (he is in Paris himself), the
bed was as comfortable as possible. I went to the art
gallery as you recommended and admired, though hastily,
the Willett collection of ceramics but spent most time in
the picture gallery: yes, I remarked the 2 Luca Giordano
oils, and saw the newly discovered Constable portrait, and
admired once again the superb Florentine Rape of Helen which
I feel convinced is by The Master of the Judgement of Paris,
don't you think?
Don't worry about my birthday: it is not the 14th, it
is the 17th. But since it is so dynamic in your memory I
wish you would not worry about it. I enclose my new poem
and have nearly finished another. I love you dearly,
Lawrence.

66416078 - not-logged-in-939538ab60c3411bfee1

I love you, so much, my Muse, I adore you
Lawrence
Blackheath
11 ix 1950
Dearest Sylvia,
Brighton: thoughts of you were strong in the geometric-
al streets and crescents and squares and in the pavilion. When I was on the front I visualised you in the same place in the past, a past from which I was absent. Apart from erotic imaginings of you in the places I was in I also saw the architecture with your eyes, and your taste, or as imperfectly as I have acquired appreciated of Regen-
cy design from your beautiful example. Past and present were tangled in my reactions. Apart from this compound of taste aroused by you and desire you there were many strange contrasts. Ilsa Rodmell turns out to be closely reliant on the cards, fortune tellers, and sorcery gener-
ally (she is, nonetheless, a good painter): we had a seance which was a complex failure in every experiment, except that Bernard was half-hypnotised and remembered a childhood nightmare. She read the cards and told me about the two (and I quote) women in my life: 'yes, yes', I said, 'how did you know'. And the medium, who works on West Pier, in the day-time projected (sic) himself to finding out about me and found a dog (very strongly, he said, he got a dog). We slept in Catt's garrett (he is in Paris himself), the bed was uncomfortable and sordid but Catt's friend Victor, and ex-prisoner of war, now a farm worker, was charming and made us as comfortable as possible. I went to the art gallery as you recommended and admired, though hastily, the Willett collection of ceramics but spent most time in the picture: yes, I remarked the 2 Luca Giordano oils, and saw the newly discovered Constable portrait, and admired once again the superb Florentine Rape of Helen which I feel convinced is by The Master of the Judgement of Paris, don't you think?

Don't worry about my birthday: it is not the 14th, it is the 17th. But since it is so dynamic in your memory I wish you would not worry about it. I enclose my new poem and have nearly finished another. I love you dearly,
Lawrence

66679785 - Kelvets

I love you so much, my muse, I adore you
Lawrence

Blackheath
11 ix 1950

Dearest Sylvia,

Brighton: thoughts of you were strong in the geometric-
al streets and crescents and squares and in the pavilion. When I was on the front I visualized you in the same place in the past, a past from which I was absent. Apart from erotic imaginings of you in the places I was in I also saw the architecture with your eyes, and your taste, or as imperfectly as I have acquired appreciation of Regency design from your beautiful example. Past and present were tangled in my reactions. Apart from this compound of taste aroused by you and desire for you there were many strange contrasts. Ilsa Rodmell turns out to be closely reliant on the cards, fortune tellers, and sorcery generally (she is, nonetheless, a good painter): we had a seance which was a complex failure in every experiment, except that Bernard was half-hypnotized and remembered a childhood nightmare. She read the cards and told me about the two (and I quote) women in my life: 'yes, yes' I said, 'how did you know'. And the medium, who works on West Pier, in the day-time projected (sic) himself to finding out about me and found a dog (very strongly, he said, he got a dog). We slept in Cat's garrett (he is in Paris himself), the bed was uncomfortable and sordid but Catt's friend Victor, an ex-prisoner of war, now a farm worker, was charming and made us as comfortable as possible. I went to the art gallery as you recommended and admired, though hastily, the Willett collection of ceramics but spent most time in the picture gallery: yes, I remarked the 2 Luca Giordano oils, and saw the newly discovered Constable portrait, and admired once again the superb Florentine Pale of Helen which I feel convinced is by The Master of the Judgment of Paris, don't you think?

Don't worry about my birthday: it is not the 14th, it is the 17th. But since it is so dynamic in your memory I wish you would not worry about it. I enclose my new poem and have nearly finished another. I love you dearly,

Lawrence

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