Through Which We Live

Dear Park

I hope that this letter finds you well. The snow is light, but winter is always cold. In the silent confines of my residence, my thoughts have been at liberty to wander. They have returned frequently to the topic of our provoking discussion by the river in early autumn. Indeed it puzzles and amazes me how the nature of our interactions have changed. I say “our”, but really we are quite the exception amidst our more eager contemporaries.

These contemporaries of ours are certainly queer. At any given moment, one finds them staring at these small boxes that they hold in their hands. I must admit that I was surprised upon knowing that you had never used one of these boxes. Nevertheless, perhaps my surprise was not equal to yours when I told you that our contemporaries were using these boxes to communicate with each other. What important matter could there be to require them to be constantly in communication with each other?

Your question was a striking one. Alas, upon closer reflection one is apt to find there nothing of importance. It seems that they use these boxes for communication only because it pleases them. Well then, what could be so pleasing about staring at a box? That is not for us to judge. The moon is out, and I shall take a moment to admire its fine countenance, as I am sure you would be similarly inclined to do.

Sincerely

Stone