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Dear Miss Lester:
I hope a few lines will not annoy or embarrass you.
I'm writing, Miss Lester, because I'd like you to know that I am not a common thief.
I stole your bag, I want you to know, because I fell in love with you the moment I saw you on the bus.
I could think of no way to become acquainted with you except by acting rashly - foolishly, to be accurate.
But then, one is a fool when one is in love.
I loved the way your lips were so slightly parted.
You represented the answer to everything to me.
I haven't been unhappy since I came to New York four years ago, but neither have I been happy.
Rather, I can best describe myself as having been one of the thousands of young men in New York who simply exist.
Loving you is the important thing, Miss Lester.
There are some people who think love is sex and marriage and six o' clock-kisses and children, and perhaps it is, Miss Lester.
But do you know what I think?
I think love is a touch and yet not a touch.
I suppose it's important to a woman that other people think of her as the wife of a man who is either rich, handsome, witty or popular.
I'm not even popular. I'm not even hated.
I'm just -- I'm just -- Justin Horgenschlag.
I never make people gay, sad, angry, or even disgusted.
I think people regard me as a nice guy, that's all.
When I was a child no one pointed me out as being cute or bright or good-looking.
If they had to say something they said I had sturdy little legs.
I don't expect an answer to this letter, Miss Lester.
I would like an answer more than anything else in this world, but truthfully I don't expect one.
I merely wanted you to know the truth.
If my love for you has only led me to a new and great sorrow, only I am to blame.
Perhaps one day you will understand and forgive your blundering admirer.