I don’t think you knew how to reach anyone, at least when it came to me. The snow is flying and winds are howling, reluctantly I start to remember. It would not have done any good to write a script, the parts were not well acted. Anytime I told you to sit in my chair and take a look from my view; if you had complied, you might have won me over. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so fickle, but I could say the same about you. Your last attempt will live on in its own way, the paper hearts are streaming in the wind. My only wish is that I could finally decide what to think of your picture. It was something about what was in your hand, it might have been the truth.