Dithyrhambia

I was reading Somerset Maugham a million years ago, and I remember Philip Carey, in the book, describing someone's letters as having become dithyrhambic in nature, of late. That word, dithyrhamb, was like a bell clapper. I had to go look it up in a book. In an adjectival sense, it meant something along the lines of being wildly uneven in emotion, tone and content. One of my top five words; what are some of yours?
The book was Of Human Bondage, by the way.


I was in a bit of a mood, or, rather emerging from one. The whole time through, though, you must know I was thinking about you. You stay in mind in times of drought and daily. It really heartens me. It may come across as being a bit, at worst, needy and, maybe understanding/reliance/ectoplasmatically sub-genetic commonality/we-just-find-similar-things-to-be-funny|exciting|beautiful|sad, but, in all honesty, it's far simpler and much less crude; any possible situations I foresee in my future involving you in any way fill me with a confident sense of goodness for which I will be grateful in retrospect: you like commas like I like commas.


You are undeniably educated and refined; bright, insightful and far further ahead in quality and inventiveness in your unique terms of expression than you will ever allow yourself to admit. Sorry. You're awesome. The humility has its charm, so keep it but know... You've absolutely got it going on and it's bedrock. I cannot express how eagerly I wait to see what you will do next. On another level, it's also something below and beyond all that. The graceful carriage of your head as you smile with a light in your eye and lean ever-so-slightly to calculate and digest before reacting or responding or initiating or doing nothing is bigger than deja vu.


More soon.