Writing the letter. What? About...

Golden sunbeams, such memories. Memories, regrets. Oh, lovely thick blond locks he had in rivers falling on my side, gently whispering, now wash those windows. Tell Harry the letter. But not the river... not regrets... what?

Golden sunbeams bringing together, oh, such lovely letters... words... what?

Golden blue fields stirred such memories. A letter of last sunbeams that day, in the windows as the hour passes. But not sewing that day, no, but kissing, lips filtering through fields of blond locks to be with each other, paid for in regrets, said in haste. Words had a hand on my side, gently that day, filtering Harry's hair, what? Oh, lovely the simple golden cube of hair as he lowered his face down sunbeams that day, through windows, through the waters, towards my lips. Bringing together the lovely thick locks he had, oh, not kissing by the hour, not him, not Harry, not paid for...

Sewing the blue dress, my handiwork... what?

Dancing blond locks of sunbeams that gently whispered and spoke in two rivers joined to always, that day, anything at all, in the fields with my handiwork, my Harry.

Writing the regrets. That day, that hour.

Words said in haste: two rivers...