Dear Empress,

With sincere sympathy, I regretfully inform you that you are not wearing any clothes. Not a stitch. I'm indeed sorry to have to inform you that in spite of reassurances by others who do not wish to suffer your wrath and eternal sniping for not telling you what you want to hear, please let me be the first to tell you that, in fact, everything is just hanging out on display for all the world to see - birthmarks and body hairs, dimpled pits and droopy parts - the works.

I suppose had you not been quite so deluded in the first place, unable (or more accurately unwilling) to see what we've all known all along you could have saved yourself no small amount of expense (and embarrassment). Unfortunately, what in your arrogance and self-service you chose to believe became your ultimate undoing, and you have damaged not only your own credibility and reputation, but lost the respect of those who love you, and have now those who will continue to love you only out of blindness, loyalty, or obligation.

I wish you no ill, but urge you, swiftly, to fetch your robes in the hopes that you will preserve enough dignity to not only learn from but laugh at your mistake in reminiscence, forgiven and forgiving. In this, there is growth and evolution and peace. However, if you choose to hide in shame, harbouring your hurt and anger, you will surely die alone, old, lonely, your heart shriveled with bitterness, heavy with the burden of guilt, and black for all your unforgiving.

Oh, Sweet Empress, heed my advice - start afresh and all will be renewed.