A twisted individual. A writer of the most beautiful love letters. They had nestled their way into the heart of the woman he had intended them for. The woman who carried them in her heart's soul was liberated by a fast moving truck. Half his soul, and the good parts of his mind left with hers. He raged at the gods, making his love so dead, grow so cold. His bitter tears poured through his hands. A fresh batch of love letters was born. He then went through his day, looking for a victim. Weighing and judging the actions of every woman he encountered. On the seventh day he found her. A perfectly lovely woman, of the age of thirty he estimated, she was the right one. She is the target. She seemed to notice everything around her, highly aware. Her eyes sought everyone elses'. Her ears picking up on bits and pieces of nearby conversations. A woman so free of her own distractions, with so much aimless attention. He could occupy it all. The very traits that made her perfect also made the chase difficult for him. Following was not easy, but it was his sole purpose, so important to his agenda. Her name fell into his possession, as did her address, a few of her nuances. She was captured, the letters adapted and put in envelopes. The substantial collection was then put into a large manilla envelope along with instructions, and his last will and testament. Sealed and signed to his lawyer. Two weeks following his graceless leap from life, the first letter found its way into the attentive woman's hands. Two weeks later again. Two weeks later, her hands shook from the newest letter. Two weeks later with a tear in her eye, his grasp was fully upon her. It became so difficult to hide the growing pile from her loving husband, but she must. Her husband was incapable of understanding this love. He must not understand this love. Problems began to emerge. She needed to be with her new love, but he made it clear it wouldn't be possible for some time. She aches, she weeps, she lives for her dreams, for the passing of weeks. She ignored her friends on the street. She ran into things. She frequently tripped. She would wear the most recent letter. Her husband would start fights with her, she couldn't fight back, she had no passion for that, and she knew she was in the wrong. He hit her once, and cried. He asked for a divorce, to never do it again. He got it, the letters came out, the hit came out. He got most of the money, she got most of the goods, and he got the kids. She waited and wasted away. Then no letter. The next day the answer was sent from a lawyer's office, a four year old obituary.