What I would like it to be about: How we humans have an obsession with immortality, as if we ought to possess the future as well as the present, while at the same time living in complete denial of the future because it is such a big scary threatening thing. How we are attached to the idea of books surviving forever not just because we would like there to be books around for us to read (there will be plenty of those until the day we die, I can guarantee it) but also on some deeper level because we feel it is part of our identity and the idea that there will some day be no more books smells the same as the idea that there will be no more me. It stinks.

How, let's be honest, some day there's bound to be no more books, either because nobody wants books any more or because we are all dead. In either situation, it won't matter very much at the time. It matters to us now. For no particularly good reason, except the above-mentioned smelly immortality ego-trip thing.

How we don't bother to think long-term as a species, so it's rather rude to say that the long-term future belongs to us. If we want it to belong to us, we should conquer it with good, solid plans, like we conquer the short-term future. Unfortunately we are distracted by falling explosive things and dying children, little rotters. I am wrapping all this in a short-attention span, illogical narrative because I feel this best reflects the subject matter: our short-attention span, our illogic, our narrative.

I am also doing this because I am incapable of stringing 15 sentences together coherently, as you well know, and has been proved by previous submissions to Forget.

Whether it actually is about any of this, whether anyone will get it, whether anyone having got it will find it at all interesting...all of this is lost on the foggy moor of doubt. The best way to get out of a peat bog is to get someone to pull you out with a stick. The second best way is to swim with your elbows.

The foregone conclusion stuff is preppy pretentious crap and you are allowed to cut it. I just thought it sort of fit the theme of here-we-go-again, denial of the future, denial of the inevitability of our demise, blah blah. And we have been chuckling over it this week and you know how I treasure our intimate moments.

If the whole thing is too scattered and masturbatory to print, I offer you this letter to print instead. If this won't do either, write the fucking thing yourself.