To pass through your parlour, an honour I intend to keep. I was not raised in a barn, though some of my best memories are of haylofts.
I, of course, am distraught to see you so near and far, resigned to a nonexistent fate.
That summer will always live in us. I know it is in you too. The summer we dared dream, and we did it together. That is our baby. The one we conceived.
The one I tend to every day.
Do not resign yourself, for you're worth a million times what you have.
As always, I end the transmission with a million and a half kisses (you choose where they go) and another one on your forehead.
And another for the tip of your nose.
Always.
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