Dear Rose.

I seldom see the perspiring meadow mist anymore. Nor do I see the farmers, herding their cattle through the fields. Its been long since I last saw any visitor in town, many suspect the plague is upon us, some even go as far as to say our nation is at war. I shall refrain from these shallow statements until I hear back from you.

Old farmer Nicholson, an old Irishman seeking his way out of the depression, sought refuge in Praucher farm, isolating himself from society. He found peace in this vast, inhabited land, plowing his bonnie fields with his companion, Brath, an old shepherds dog. Not worrying about society's petty problems, frankly not caring for what was sent upon those who spend their life working in the factories, breaking their backs. But in the end we all get lonely. Nicholson passed away with fever, Brath letting out a last wimp as he slept beside him. Praucher farm was left desolate at that, its location oblivious to all those who just didn’t care. The barn’s roof has caved in now, revealing the bearing logs that struggle to keep it up.

I recall a day, many years ago, when I last meet your mother. Oh how merrily she strolled down worker's market, taking in the smells of newly baked bread and delicious biscuits. Passing the roaming pedestrians, the sun glimpsing through the cherry-oak trees. Oh how I loved her warming smile, her beautiful expressions of love and hate. I must apologies for my nostalgia, love. But must you know that I mourn her passing every week.

As soon as I drove up to this house of solitude, I knew that this would be as good a place as any. I drove my car of the cliff that overlooks the frightening, deep and misunderstood ocean. Watching the rusty old bucket, hitting the waves that reflected the blood-red morning sun, scouring small rainfall as the impact stated itself. No one asked me, "Sir, where did your car go?". They all knew that the city-people, lost as we were, sought peace here. Or maybe they had a feeling that the car of mine was beset upon with great horrors and held memories that haunted me. I still see the lights of the ambulance, flashing in my rear mirror, the streetlights glooming the narrow streets, hugging the dark as they cooperated to ease pedestrians embrace to the light. Oh how I should have known, that within me lived hatred, eager to make those who are innocent suffer.

The cliffs near here whisper, and sing, as the strong coastal winds blow in. It is most dear to my heart, this hymn to my mortality. As I stand at the cliff-face, my heart yonders over the great ocean, reminding me of the red roses, the red apples, better times as I have yet not seen peace in my days. I gazed down and saw nothing, as simple as that. Wherever you are, Rose my love, have you ever seen the autumn sun, shimmering upon the black wavering sea? Oh it is a sight of its very own.

I threw a bottle in the strong ocean currents this evening, containing a small note that states my love for the abyss. Why I did so, I do not know. Maybe it was the singing cliffs sending me a prayer , that I shall praise its beauty in its raw form. Might it have been insanity? Whatever reason sent me to do so, I do not feel any regret towards it. As it has lifted a terrible weight that has pressed against my heart.

The house is warm, even at this time of year. The woodpiles outside, covering under the sheets, are dry, and offer much heat. The chimney glows red as I write this letter. May it stay so for the last couple hours.

I understand now. My life has relished in the comfortable solitude of this house, the memories of me long vanquished by greedy relatives and despairing siblings. My only daughter, you, left to find your way in life by a father, too weak to face the truth that relinquishes his terrible life. I am sorry, Rose, for not being there as a father when you really needed one. I am truthfully sorry.