What is the content of the letter written by the photographer to the heroine at the end of the movie The Bridges of Madison County?

Dear Francesca: I hope everything is all right with you. I don't know when you will receive this letter. Always after I die. I am sixty-five years old now. We met thirteen years ago today, when I entered your alley to ask for directions. I bet this package won't disturb your life. I really can't stand letting these cameras lie in the second-hand window of the camera shop or become the hands of strangers. When they arrive at your place, they are exhausted. But I have no one else to entrust, so I must give it to you and let you take risks. Sorry, I was on the road almost all year from 1965 to 1973. I accept all the overseas missions I seek just to resist the temptation to call you or come to you, but in fact, as long as I am sober, this temptation is always in my life. How many times have I said to myself, "Fuck it, I'm going to Winterset, Iowa, and I'm going to take Francesca away at all costs." But I remember your words, and I respect your feelings. Maybe you're right. I don't know. All I know is that driving the car out of your alley on that hot Friday was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, and it will never happen again. In fact, I doubt how many men have done such a difficult thing. I left Geography magazine on 1975, and my photography career has been devoted to shooting my own chosen theme. Find something to do locally or locally when you have the chance, and only go out for a few days at a time. The economy is difficult, but it's ok. I always get by. Many of my works revolve around Puget Sound. I like this. It seems that when people get old, they turn to water. By the way, I have a dog now, the golden retriever. I call it "Luda", and it travels with me most of the time, sticking its head out of the window and looking for the object to capture. 1972, I fell off a cliff in Acadia National Park in Maine and broke my ankle. The necklace broke with the round card. Luckily, I found it nearby and asked the jeweler to repair it. My heart is covered with dust. I can't think of a better way to put it. There were several women before you, and none after you. I didn't swear to remain single, but I'm not interested. I once observed a Canadian goose whose companion was killed by a hunter. You know this goose's spouse is loyal. The goose runs around the pond all day, day after day. The last time I saw it, it was still watching. This metaphor is too shallow and not very literary, but it is roughly my feeling. I often try to imagine where you are and what you are doing on a foggy morning or afternoon when the sun shines on the northwest water. Nothing complicated-just go to your garden, sit on the swing on the front porch and stand in front of your kitchen sink. I remember everything: your breath, your summer smell, your touch close to my skin, and your whispering voice when I love you. Robert Pan Warren once said, "A world that seems to be abandoned by God." Well said, sometimes it is close to my feelings. But I can't live like this forever. When these feelings are too strong, I will load the car for Harry and walk with him for a few days. I don't like feeling sorry for myself I'm not that kind of person, and most of the time I don't feel this way. On the contrary, I am grateful, because at least I found you. We may miss it, just like two cosmic dust flashes by. God, or the universe, or whatever it is called, in short, the large system of balance and order does not recognize the time on earth. For the universe, four days and four trillion light years are no different. I try to remember that. But I am a man after all. All the philosophical reasoning I remember can't stop me from wanting you. Every day, every hour, every moment, in the depths of my mind is the cruel cry of time, which is the time when I can never be with you. I love you, deeply, wholeheartedly and forever. The Last Cowboy: Robert