A light-year always passes between two of our embraces. You know how distrustful I am of love letters, and yet I must write to you. How can I give evidence of my love if you cannot see my eyes or behold my nights? I would rather write to you about this place, about the people in the Bay of Dolphins. This region is odd, my dearest. If I weren’t bound to my attic by an unusual, sick passion, I would settle here. But of course, only if you wanted that too, only if you liked it here too. Here we could revel in lunar honey . . . But who can think about that right now? Today I went on a dolphin hunt with the natives. We boarded a little schooner they called Haramakana or Karamahana or something like that, and we waited for the moon to shine. Then we rowed, silently, reverentially, on the liquid gold, our boat festooned with wreaths of wild magnolia, so that we looked like a funeral procession or a wedding party. I don’t want to make you jealous and I won’t be describing their women. Although you have no reason to worry.
