When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon the table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels"
— T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
c/o Torchwood, London
Hello, Rose. Discovered there's a closing rift just large enough for a postcard off of Venus 3, thought I'd let you know how everything is going over here before it closes. Let you know how everything is over here. Because, no matter what Sarah Jane might say, I'm usually the one left by my companions. I don't know what to do, knowing I've left you. Worry, I suppose.
I'm sure you're fine, of course.
Anyway, I don't often buy postcards, but I did find this one stuffed in an old timey-wimey detector I made a few years back. It's from a small motel that Martha and I stayed at in Los Angeles. We weren't entirely sure how long we'd be stuck in 1969, so I took her for a quick trip on an actual plane. Absolutely terrible, I hate flying. But the trip itself was nice. Felt almost human, wandering around, sightseeing, and waiting for a flight back to London.
You should go there, you'd love it. Take a trip with him. Have fun.
Live a good life. I think that's what I'm trying to say.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 190