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My Own Charles,

Your dulcet tones are quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in Washington, and when do you go to Los Angeles? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to the White House first.

Always, with undying love,


(Many thanks to my dear friend Oscar Wilde for helping me express my hearts desire to this handsome brain.)