There's a little world with no name where everyone knows you by name, and that feels just like home, but more so. It's always mealtime here and there's always more good things to eat than you can possible imagine, and the pie, well the pie is like a taste of heaven.

All of these things should have been a warning, but what can I say? I came there tired, cold, hungry, and bruised of spirit. At the time it seemed like a miracle. But I forgot that not all miracles are bright, that there are dark miracles as well. But I was on the run from that hardest thing to outrun: yourself. I was recently orphaned and recently disappointed in love, and I had more money than I could spend in a reasonable lifetime. So I ignored my responsibilities and traveled instead, hoping to escape from myself, but where ever I went, there I was. But something awful happened to my ship, and then, somehow, I stumbled into this place. Or maybe it came to me.

Our hosts are hard to see clearly, except out of the corners of my eyes, where they look like angels from the books I read as a child. Except sometimes, after a few too many glasses of wine, they look like something else, something less familiar, something less comforting.

Everyone here is happy and no one ever wants to leave. Or can leave. But as the feasting and partying, the games and amusements go on and on; I have begun to notice something: new guests arrive all the time and old guests are seen less and less often until they never seen again. I fear it is my turn next. And I would very much like to leave -- could you please help?

When I was very small, my grandmother taught me the trick of how to send a message to the Flying Temple by sticking a message into a pocket with a hole in it and walking around until the message is gone. Hopefully my hosts won't notice if I spend a lot of time examining the buffet tables.

Hopefully,

Ambrose Matsuri

Take a gander at the 2nd paragraph -- I added a bit about the letter writer there.