Failure will come; it comes already. You love me none the less.
Shortcomings drive my actions and thoughts; and yet you love me as a favored son.
Dark and selfish thoughts course through me; how am I then worthy even of your notice?
As I roam these fields, walk these cobbles, let me encounter my fellows with some small part of your love. It is pure grace, given me as an undeserved and even unlooked-for gift.
I am a steward of your love — let me onpass it.
(Letter #1,778)
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