I write you this letter only because I just realized that I’d nearly forgotten about you entirely. I was eating my beans, as usual, when one fell – plop. I laughed. I really must write to him, I thought. Then I thanked the bean. How have you been? I haven’t done a thing since last we saw one another. When was that? I don’t expect any of these questions to be answered, of course: I know you don’t write anything down. Still, what does one do in a letter if not ask questions? To talk of myself seems gross and presupposing (if inescapable); plus I know you never cared to know too much. “That’s enough, that’s enough,” you’d say anytime I started on myself. “That’s enough.” Do you still tell people that? Or do you even bother with others anymore at all? It’s difficult to say at this point whether there are others around or not; we’re all so damned sick with ourselves. “Oh that’s nice,” we’ll say as we admire something, and as the last syllable falls lamely from our lips we’ll recognize ourselves in the thing and nod, knowing as we know that we’re simply sick to death with ourselves. I thought of you when a bean fell to the floor, and I realize now I’ve only been reminded of myself. But listen to me: I sound just exactly like all those people that we hate.