16 June 2006


An Excerpt From a Work That Will Never Be Written

Your letter arrived yesterday. The page was blank. No return address, but I knew it was from you. The paper was so thin it was transparent. It slipped out of my hand and floated to the floor, where I had a hard time finding it. What was the point? I got a blank sheet of my own paper. Not transparent, but blank. I sealed it in an envelope. Put a stamp on it. I didn’t write your address on the envelope. Instead I thought about where you live when I placed it in the mail box. Hello? You still there?


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