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Contains my favourite letter in literature:

I've forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I've forgotten them, and now I'm talking to you without them. Unlikely as it may seem, I'm not the sort of woman who gives herself up body and soul to the love of one person, even the person who's dearest to her in the whole world. I am someone who's unfaithful. I wish I could find the words I laid aside to tell you that. And now some of them are coming back to me. I wanted to tell you what I think, which is that one always ought to keep oneself a place, yes, that's the word, a private place, where one can be alone and love. To love one knows not what, nor whom, nor how, nor for how long. To love ... now all the words are suddenly coming back ... To set aside a place inside oneself to wait, you never know, to wait for a love, perhaps for a love without a person attached to it yet, but for that and only that. For love. I wanted to tell you you were what I had waited for. You alone became the outer surface of my life. the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me until I die. Don't ever answer this. And please don't hope to see me.

*sighs*