Dear Wigleaf,

What are we doing, exactly? How will this end? What tools will we need? With whom shall we consult? Is all of life just a system of punishments and rewards? Beeps and vibrations? Who are the gatekeepers? Who are the jailers? Who are the judges? Cake or pie? Beatles or Stones? Twitter or Facebook? I'm asking you, Wigleaf, because no one else seems to know. Yesterday I climbed Mt. Quandary (isn't it pretty?!?) and breathed the thin air and scanned the snowy peaks and thought of you. I wrote my name on a scroll they keep in a metal tube there, listing all those who reached the summit. (Did Donald Trump really climb a 14er? I'm skeptical.) I wrote the questions above, too, and a guy dressed up like a sea captain (for some reason?) complained and the park ranger made me erase them. While the sea captain looked on. I tore a hole in the paper. Oddly satisfying! The ranger said and I quote, "We can't have every Tom, Dick, and Harry writing poetry here or we'd run out of paper." We'd run out of paper! Well, I guess we are well and truly fucked if that happens. Anyway, please respond this time Wigleaf. This is the 4th (?) postcard I've sent you and all I ever get in return is silence.

Beginning to think you don't care,
I remain,
Faithfully yours,

- - -

Read Kathy's story.

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