Hello again, of course, I miss you dearly. The weather at the corners of the world looks bleak and without reprieve. Nothing would warm these cold bones more than you, wrapped up in my arms. I fear I will not make it to summer and of course this letter I write to you wont even make it out of this humble shack I've built as the Snow has me barricaded in. I can't even leave to so much as hunt for my next meal. Writing to you is all that keeps me sane. Maybe one day someone will find this letter along with all the others. It's possible I suppose.
This foolish man is still very much in love with you. As my body turns to dust I hope by then you've found someone else to love. Someone you can grow old with and watch the stars burn out. I fear this is all I have left.
I won't make it till the morning.
I love you forever,
Stephen Spice *



How can I go on, my dreams are dead.
The reaper beats the gong.
Upon his wings old and cold.
Upon his scythe, slick with soul.
I know he comes for me this day.
I am finally going home.