My dearest Agha,
Another ladened day ends. The lantern beams on the study table. Book titles eke out in vertical columned layers and the archives behind stride with even more resiliency. Russell. Descartes. Plato. Nietzsche. Gibran. German. I study the material of my own volitions and along with their intellectual penumbras. I took a momentary account of my demeanours and realized the only unravelling books of discourse, other than course work, philosophy. I recall reading multiples of subjects as reminiscent of my prior two year pursuit but it was just now when the acted amazed my choice of present but perhaps not so much as I exaggerate it. Philosophy is fun. I was sleepless when my eyes dilated on the very first day of surfing through the philosophical section of Uni library. I had never experienced anything like that before. Books do not have any price tags but works are all hall of fame. I keep my risk analysis with young and elderly lads in class intact. Sometimes confusion persists, efforts are fragmented and resultant of study undertakings unknown. In swerve of moment, sometimes, all answers precipitate at once. But in the end what follows will lead and what matters most at start and during exercise, is to truly try. I never run out of letters. Words reside in layers whilst my seamless perspicacity to expound in sentences, however, intricate is return, return to scurry lifestyle. To write is almost so captivating that you never feel relinquished from its charm afterwards and all you do is squeak a hoarse throat in a swarm of skirmishing noise around. Rest you are right. Life is beauty when I glare the blondie named Carlie and to not compliment her friend Emilie is as unfair. Rachael and I are embittered by a slipshod boyfriend of hers called Luke and making plans to take the bloke out of the equation. Rest is well. Take care. My books beckon me. I will embrace them.
Your loving Son