The Gentleman's Ailment:

Thomas had had enough. If he had to beg for an end to his torture, so be it. And he was determined, this time, that he would make it beyond his writing table. But the struggle was too great and the words came out harsher than ever before.

Jailer of my heart;

      Years of thinking have accumulated to this moment. I have finally found that great mystery of life that men have been searching for since the dawn of time, and though I know I am not the most learned of persons, I now know this: that love which poets praise and writers glory in is false. It is a fictitious device created to quench the pains of the love they felt. For they have felt only what I have felt--the utter despair of love. 

       I now know exactly what love is. Love is a disease. A parasite which feeds on one's soul until they are nothing but the hunger and longing for requital. 

      If only this letter could find a cure for my pain. If only I had within my reach a tonic for my illness. And if, by chance, there were such a cure, it would be held within your grip and be refused me before I had chance to ask it of you.

      And yet, after thinking this I am glad you hold it rather than I, for in my weakness I know I would have taken it and forgotten how I adore the hope of your requiting me of my struggle for the reason that you have suffered through love's pain for me, and we together shall conquer the illness which degrades us.  Until then I will be glad to suffer for the hope of you.

      Until then,

       Your adoring love

Thomas sighed. If love was a disease, he was glad to be afflicted. 

He threw the page into the fire along with the rest of his mapped out heart.