My beloved Blossom, In a valley of solitude, men grow older and men grow sorrow. They cultivate hunger where most of their blossoms die quietly. The survival blossoms will always carry the weight of their fathers’ solitude upon their shoulders. They grow in circles, yet they burst in nests. They hide their genitals but they always forget to cover their chests. They are meant to survive as long as their lovers will find and protect them, and cure the diseases that their fathers had given birth to, in the middle of the West. But men will always grow sorrow and men will always grow deep, as their fathers die quietly, they will always find peace. Earnestly yours, Tommy.