Dear Sylvia Plath,

Is there bathtubs and books where ever you are?

You know, I'm still not happy with Ted Hughes. Nataliya introduced me to you, years after you met infurno, head on. Sorry, for the pun.

Tonight, I don't know why I am writing you. Perhaps, to close a chapter. As all stories must end at one point.

Is okay if I compare you to Edie, without offending you? Minus the crazy bitch tendencies and all.

I read some of your work tonight.

There was no voice from above because there is no voice from above. It was in you all along.

You were my childhood comfort blanket for so long. I read you before I fell asleep, after drinking wine and wondering how you read me so well. So many others, so well.

I don't why but you inspired me in a way I don't believe you intended to. And tonight, I looked back and I'm glad I never read your journal that Hughes refused to publish for the longest time.

Thank you.

hi.