Dear William Henry Jackson,
I am writing to you from the future. Or, perhaps I am writing to you, who are in the past. Either way, you have been dead for some time now, and it seems that we will not be crossing paths in this lifetime.
I, however, find you a very attractive man. I usually do not have a particular attraction towards photographers, but you are one of my exceptions. Plus, you are clearly a man who can both ride a horse, and shoot a gun - two essential traits every real man should have. If you come into the future, we can build us a cabin with our own hands in the middle of some thick, dense earth, way down some dirt road or up on a mountain, and have a vegetable garden and you and I can shoot things dead and we can cook them. It will be heaven. We can take lots of pictures and when we get sick of having too many prints around we can make them into paper airplanes and set them to flight, although I will probably fight to keep a few of yours because I love your work so. I know you like painting, so you can paint a whole bunch, and I can sit outside in the sun and bang on my guitar until I get good at it. We will dance on the grass in our bare feet every day. And I will happily cut that grass every few weeks with a large machete.
I hope you get this message, hop on that horse with that very large weapon of yours and come and rescue me from all of these modern day city boys.
Thank you very much.
Love,
Lisa
