Dear Anne,

Your latest letter was filled with compassion and expressed your desire to help me. I'm lost without you, Anne. Every day I am thankful for that first email you sent me. Why me? There are millions of people in this world and yet you picked me. Was there something special about me, about my name? Did something click with you like it clicked with me?

I'm glad I found you. You make me feel free; you make my life worth living. I'll admit, I considered suicide in the past. I tried to slit my wrists during high school, but I'm a coward. All I wanted was out of this life, out of this world. My father says he has my best interests at heart, but does he? He wants to turn me into his Mini Me. I can't do it. It's so frustrating. I crave his love, his interest, but we are two different people. I can't make myself into my father.

We've clashed about this so many times in the past. He cannot see the artist in me. All he sees in another Banker, like him. Money, money, money. It drives him and drives me insane. Are you obsessed with money, Anne? Is that your ambition? I have enough to survive if I'm careful. My grandmother's trust is dwindling. Sure, there's plenty, but it will run out sooner or later. Father wants me to invest it. It's invested, but at the same time, I reaching into it for my expenses. I can live on the interest—and that's short rations.

I'm paying my rent and living expenses. My paints will last a while, but my canvases are limited. I'll have to buy more sooner or later. I've sold one painting. It boosted me up, made me feel like I was on my way. I haven't sold another. Perhaps today; perhaps tomorrow or it could happen next month. It's a waiting game. There are other painters in Paris. The sidewalks are lined with them, all here for the same reason. I'm one of thousands.

How many make it? How many earn their livings selling landscapes and city scenes? You understand. Have you sold any of your stories? Have you submitted any to magazines or found an agent for your Great American novel? You're in the same boat I'm in, Anne. There's a picky audience out there. They want what they want. And if you can't provide it, you're out of luck.

I wish I could fly back to spend a weekend with you. You said you were going to the mountains with your friends. One of them has a cabin. How many are going? Is it a group or one on one. Tell me it's not your boyfriend. I'm your boyfriend, right? That's how I consider myself, one meeting or a multitude. I'm coming on too strong, aren't I?

You think I'm desperate. I am. I'm desperate for love. I haven't had any loving since I arrived in Paris. I won't describe the things I do in the dark; the things I must do. I'm frustrated—a frustrated lover. You don't want me to talk about it, describe it. I can't help it; it's compulsive. I hate living alone yet find myself alone more often than not.

Forget I said that. I'm poring my heart out to you in my emails. I say inappropriate things. It's me talking, talking, talking. I say what is on my mind. It just pour out like lava pouring of a volcano—spewing all over the place. Father warned me against my rambling tongue. He says it will get me in trouble or isolate me from others. I am inappropriate and I know it. Forgive me, Anne. See what you have to put up with.

I'm going out shortly. I'll walk into the night—just ramble around until I fall into a bar. People are interesting. I'll focus on a person or couple then paint the scene. Life surrounds me yet I'm barely a part of it. I'm an observer. I see and I paint. That's my life.

Your ever-loving

Corey

xxx