Dearest Valerie,

   Sweet wife, it has been years now since your passing, and
slightly less since I decided to dedicate myself to your life's work; teeny tiny sketches.
 
    In your last days, during your  gradual slide into madness, before the
 yacht fire, the speaking in tongues, that episode at the zoo, you amassed
a large collection of these, which I have begun to find in caches around our home.
So far, they have showed up under the mattress, in the toilet cistern, in a pot of yoghurt.

 I have begun to upload them, in your memory. Please forgive my slowness in updating.
 I lost my hands in the yacht fire.

     with a love that will echo through the ages,

               George McHale