Ireland is but a desolate wasteland now, ruled by Warlords, Gangers and Merchants. I have tried to reach family, friends, something familiar, but to no avail. I often look up to the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun, a ray of hope to present itself in these dark times.
But hope never comes.
I am still fuelled by my desire to see you Sandra, and I will either meet you on the boat or die in the snow with your name on my lips. I have attached the last photo of my cat, Socks. She ran away, considering me a hindrance to her own continued existence.
They are adaptable creatures, Sandra. Not only has Socks survived, but she now rules with an iron paw over the southeast as Warqueen of the Baseball Fuzzies, a marauding gang of pirates and killers. I wonder if she would still recognise me. I fear not, and hope I'm never in the position to find out. If I'm not on the boat by sunrise tomorrow, sail to Chattanooga without me. Find love again.
Yours,
Prevenger