A Postcard from The Brink of Madness. circa. 1976

 

Wes,

You will not be expecting a letter from me, which is why I am writing you. I have been thinking of you so often since I have been staying here. 

I am sending you a postcard from a point on the southernmost side of the island the locals call The Brink of Madness. Alone there presides an unused gaol, with a lighthouse balancing on the tip. 

There is only a small pub in the village nearby, which doubles as a post-office, pharmacy, convenience store and repair shop. It is run by one middle-aged man and his wife, Morag. 

Enclosed I have sent along some polaroids which I have taken for you with that old camera I stole from your flat last year when I left.

I did love you. I may still love you. I am thinking of you as I hike these rocky coastal beaches in the dawn as the egrets stir, and the rain sings against the rock. From here the sea stretches out to eternity. 

I wonder if you still think of our years together. 

E.M.