[ ooc: Sealed and anonymously hand delivered. Jim has a person for everything, including dropping off snail mail. The address, of course, he acquired because he's the best at that sort of thing. The envelope is addressed to M. Graves. There's no return address, other than Jim's initials, but he assumes Matthias will appreciate the challenge. The contents of the letter is a poem by Walt Whitman, in honor of their first conversation where they discussed the finer points of good poetry. Jim was feeling sentimental, as well as seeking to test out Matthias's skill with a coded message. If Matthias succeeds, they have a rendezvous to keep. Jim has been plotting.
The poem is hand written in graceful cursive, and is as much of a message as the code hidden within it, if you're looking close enough in the subtext. ]
IN paths untrodden, In the growth by margins of pond-waters, Escaped from the life that exhibits itself, From all the standards hitherto publish’d—from the pleasures, profits, eruditions, conformities, Which too long I was offering to feed my soul; Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish’d—clear to me that my Soul, That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in comrades; Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world, Tallying and talk’d to here by tongues aromatic, No longer abash’d—for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere, Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest, Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment, Projecting them along that substantial life, Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love, Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year, I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men, To tell the secret of my nights and days, To celebrate the need of comrades.