14th March 2012
Dear Mr Warren,
When you walk down the street and it is a Saturday evening in March, and you look about you at people in their more leisured moments – a drink with friends – a pleasant meal – catching up with gossip – and with a sudden curiosity you feel an unpleasant need to examine your feelings more closely so as to not feel quite as superficial as you might really want to, then you might see people without the pretension of any deeper nature than what is manifest on the surface; you might entertain, somewhat superficially, the idea that this thing you called your ‘inner life’ was nothing more than your particular disappointment with this fiction – the way a girl’s gaze seems to register your presence, though she spares but half a second to do so, mauls your sense of permanence more acutely than a thousand ill-timed reflections. Now you talk to yourself in meta-fictions so as to burrow still deeper, into still deeper disappointments, to push the illusion further of an ‘inner life’ so to speak, and before you know it, you’re a strange mammal in a hole, constantly being on the lookout.
And then you look around yourself again, and though she notices you perhaps even less than before, a mere decimal point of her overall attentiveness, in that second glance, you are at least glad to have escaped this ‘inner life’ for so short a time.Regards,
The Abministrator