from somewhere in the Baltic ocean

There's an opium den I often fancy visiting and seldom do. I regret the fact that this secluded artifact of dreams isn't available to me as much as I would like to due to his distance and my busy schedule. The noise all the peasants and servants make during the laboring hours stops me from defining the thoughts and the nights are frivolous to those that, like me, prefer the depth of the universe to the shining of the stars. My fellow men live imprisoned in two worlds while few of us can live in three, four, and for the costly expense of the greenish substance, the wealthiest, like me, can afford many more.

Baudelaire talked and lived for the vice. De Quincey wrote a treatise on his life as a consumer. Wilde set upon Dorian the curse of beauty and showed him an exit to his pain through it. Many a man dived in its waters and many others succumbed in its love, but for you, reader, I will only suggest the view of a thousand storms inside a Christmas ball and just affirm that every hell has delivered its treasure and every need its detachment. For no forgiveness has been granted or even existed and no sin has ever been forgotten as the Creator places his gift upon us all and says "live as your desire dictates!" and another thousand worlds are triggered for the rest of mankind.

In this deliriant state such as yours, such as mine, can we tell who's dreaming who, who lives and who dies and certainly: What is the "righteous" path of the "just" and where does it leads us to?

Yours from somewhere in the Baltic ocean
Lord Harry.