My dear friend,
I read it. Your words are like chocolate to me. They're so luscious I want to eat them, feel them gushing through the entrails of my soul, nourishing, fattening and sweet.
I want them to reproduce within me. So I can deliver like you - painlessly, a quick and easy birth of art blossomed from a divine conception. But instead, my labor, slow and long, often feels futile, compounded by my wishes ...to be more like you.
I sit here in wonder, not knowing how you do it. Don't you have a life, like me? How do you produce prolific work leaving me enthralled? Does the clock not tick the same for you? Perhaps all clocks share their tick but all have different faces with diverse designs.
Guess it's no secret that a little green monster compulsively lurks sadly within me, watching you, hoping to learn more of that with which you've been endowed. Your talent's not fair, I'll have you know, but I still admire you so. And if you notice my pen's slight imitation, please accept it as my most respectful compliment, unconsciously bestowed.
Oh, and if you have any clue of how I can be more like you, please write and let me know.
Your pen pal