To the you who reads this

hmm, thank you for all the things I didn’t get around to thanking you for.

To the 2.44 a.m. ourself that is writing with 17 economics questions to look at before going to sleep:

I understand, I really do.

Today (which started 2 hours and 45 minutes ago), I thought about the purple books on my shelf especially, and the pile of papers on the shelf and the stack that overtook my green carry-back-and-forth bag. The truth is that even though I took pictures of the essays that were legendary and put them up, and organised all the links you sent me like a dutiful messenger, the foolish student portion of I cannot look at them.

Is it a mental block that tells me your essay handwriting is fundamentally different from your voice in the margins of the purple books? 49 marks or 51 is no matter, maybe the essay words have to be found inside myself.

He said, and you know which he it is (because if it’s in relation to you, which other he could it be?), that we would come to an epiphany. Should that be that by reading other people’s essays we can find enlightenment? For we have come to the alternative hypothesis that the words are somewhere inside this GP brain that is trying to do economics.

Our quick line has fallen out of use, but was it not the silence that cuts it? Oh, but the hotline is still there, though I don’t know if the number on the other end is still in use. Here, two weeks to As, if not to ask Mr P for a short play to read, I guess I’d like to know if you’re doing well.

In my head I expect so, since you’re you. But look, here a test, another and another a test in and of itself, of ourself is that not a curious thought?

The extra observation we were supposed to make, that it was made and this is here, what does it mean? That tongue of god is stuck like in barbed wire but everything goes to an eventual heat death for the world must cease and grow cold.

We are careful with the flame, children are fires to be set alight – burning up in a brilliant spark such that everything other savours of anticlimax.

See, blending of the wrong books, does it surprise that comparison is our weakest portion? (Our being us, not us us. They understand. Oh! I made a typo that was corrected but made sense in that moment.)

Anyway, good econs.

I hope all is well with you a thousand miles across the atlantic. I’d like to believe it is the Atlantic cable that carries this to you. It may not be too far off.

Oddly enough well,

there was of the previous ones

none without a poem.

Sorry, I hope it’s a haiku which says 575.

 

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