I have waited some time now, and I hear no response from you, friend. I listen and I hear nothing; I watch and I see only what things I regularly witness. These are the things and creatures about which I talk to you. There is no touch that I sense with finger or palm; you have no scent. You have given no sign that I may interpret other than the ordinary occurrences and thoughts that arise. I may be able to interpret these as some kind of communication, but there is no reason to believe they are anything more than random events that I take and dispose as I please. They would transpire if I asked if I demanded if I begged. Always, the same answer from you.
Still, I knew that you are that kind of comrade, a friend of nothing and consistently silent. Your constant nothing I admire. It is the most potent aspect of your presence.