It happens so that once in a while you would want to write a letter to the King. You know, I am talking about a King, a regular one with a white powdered curled wig, embroidered doublet and funny shoes.

I can see him right now writing an answer to me, sitting at the desk with cabriole legs and a quill in his hand. He is laboriously drawing fancy cursive letters and smiling to his own thoughts from time to time. He will occasionally walk across the room from the window back to the desk and sometimes strike the pose of a great thinker. And he will even not notice that he has smudged the sleeves of his doublet and powdered face with ink from the golden quill. He would read the lines from my letter over and over again in order to feel once more that magnificent anticipation of something very special and sweet and calling him.

"Oh, Your Majesty, the eloquence and fervor with which you convey your sympathy to your humble converser make my heart beat stronger and they give birth to images that arouse charming excitement and the feeling of fluttering butterflies in my stomach! Don't laugh at me, Your Majesty, the butterflies indeed flutter in my stomach! Sometimes they do. I will tell you that somewhere deep inside the garden in a cozy gazebo covered with ivy and white and red roses. The smell is mixed with the light summer breeze that traveled all around the world during the day and lost all of the smells.

I will tell you about that sitting next to you and sometimes my unruly hair will touch your cheek. You will hold my hand and half listen to me in such a manner that your thoughts would be deeply wrapped up in contemplation of the swarm of images born from looking at my curls, smelling the scent of my perfume and touching my hand. Are you still listening to me, Your Majesty?"