How surprising to find your advertisement in Witch Weekly, given that you have denounced traditional ideals of love, as you put it, but I find myself in much the same position and empathized with you on reading your entry, so perhaps it was not quite so out of place as one might at first believe. I cannot help but wonder, however, exactly what sort of companionship you seek, if love is not in your future. What type of gothic romance poems have you been reading? Are they the sort where the couples murder one another in a fit of jealousy? By writing to you, am I invite my own untimely death?

Well, I've begun this letter so it seems only sensible to finish; I've nothing else planned for the next few minutes, at any rate. And if you do plan to murder me, at least my death would be rather sensational, I imagine; the poems I've read have always ended with a fair bit of melodrama which the world today can somewhat lack. I would suggest, however, that if finding a suitable murder victim is your ultimate goal, you have your temperament rather backwards: you ought to be kind at first appearance and save the brusqueness for later.

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you are or what possessed you to write to me, but I will thank you not to write again. There has obviously been some mistake. I seek no kind of companionship whatsoever, and do not care to discuss poetry or murder with anyone who has been perusing the pages of Witch Weekly. Some recommendation that would be.

Please find enclosed an expression of my sentiments and do not contact me again.

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You recognized the reference! And here I thought the bit about poetry was only some empty enticement meant to make you sound more appealing in that dreary, ghost-stories-and-stormy-bluffs sort of way. There are some people, you know, who find that sort of thing quite attractive, and there aren't many these days who properly fit the aesthetic.

I do take issue with your description of yourself as brusque, though; it did not entirely prepare me for the spiders. I don't think of spiders as particularly brusque. Creepy, crawly, wriggly, not particularly good as appetizers no matter how you prepare them; spiders are all of these things, but not brusque.

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I do not deal in enticements, empty or otherwise, as anyone with a brain the size of a pea would have already inferred. If I cared for your opinion, I would ask; if I cared to repeat the previous warning, I would send you something far worse this time; if I cared enough to prove you wrong, I would continue this letter. As it is, I do not. But I am sure you will find my silence hereafter as brusque as anything.

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Just when we were really starting to get to know each other well, you threaten me with silence? I feel we have a special sort of chemistry and I would hate to miss out on future letters, or tokens of affection like the last one you sent me. I am not ready to devote myself to despair, though, for as you quite astutely pointed out you would need to care enough to prove me wrong were you to continue your last letter — and you did care enough to write it and send it, when you could have just ignored me entirely. I shall retain hope, then.

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