I am in desperate need for you to respond. I realize I have not heard from you, except in the way that everyone hears from you, that tip of end that produces what will open itself to something new. It is yet in that same building, that opening of being to being other, that you constantly speak. You are there so sonorously that every vibration that reaches the ears is yours. I realize you are there, my old friend. Still, you do not talk with me directly. I do not expect special treatment, but I do desire some conference, a conversation that explains what is here.
Is the good, as is the world, truly made from empty space?