Dear Empire,

These are your ramparts. It is yesterday. It is still yesterday. The machines are at our gate. To see the cogs click against the wheel tracks—I liken it to watching a man being devoured by two tigers.

We’ve mounted the turrets atop our chimney. That is why sulfur rules the flue and there is no heat.

There are also no more revelers in procession, having been unnerved by the continual knock against our buttresses. The candles are running out.

Dear, our hydrangeas have been ruined by snow. The mirrors in the hallway shake with each crash, making my image ghostly.

Forgive my jeremiad. The smoke from the howitzers is a lovely outburst. Of that we can agree.