The quiet slumber of a thought that does not come to fruition and only rests on the very tip of my tongue frustrates even the most proud man.
I felt this way as I took my journal down from my study. I wished to write. I wished to express my frustrations, my fear, and my resignation. But, no words blossomed their fruit. How can a person explain in mere words that their very bones are chilled by the thoughts of the dark unknown?
I was sent a death threat a week ago. It was signed with only a smear of blood. The letter was so ominous, so cold and clear like a winter's morning. Yet now it sits in front of me. Crumbled, water stained. Folded. It it like a broken bird or an old man. The blood stain is now a brown, dried crust. Such a simple, tired thing has brought me so much fear.
I have told a few that I trust about the letter in order to hear in places that I cannot hear, and to see in places I cannot see in order to find the source. The trail is as dry and empty as Tanaris.
And so I go about my day as if nothing as happened. My employees harvest the fields, their hands stained red from pigment of ripe bloothistle blossoms. I speak to my bookkeeper. I have several meetings with distributors, suppliers, and bulk-purchasing customers. Later, I made another anonymous donation of profits to some children in Orgimmar. They shall never know their benefactor, and I intend to keep it that way.
It has been a while since we spoken, my friend. And I am glad we have talked as so I can place my thoughts down on this page, deleting them from my brain. The weight of the worries will not be missed. I thank you for this.
Your friend,
Kiaphus
