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Go on a date!
Dear Parfois,
Christ! You are a fresh blot of light in this sea of perpetual darkness. And while it's so late at night that the dog of Egypt is beginning to howl, I'm just going to have make a new cup of coffee to write you a note that I hope you can make believe you found pinned to the corner of your mattress by your well-skinned knees in the morning, or anytime around noon when you pull your body out of bed from its slumber.
While it seems that this whole Match-site is set up like a flea-market where everyone from Yemen to Massachusetts is standing in line to get their ring-sizes properly adjusted, the whole beauty of it is almost entirely missed. It's really an autonomous playground of fantasies and photos where our best personal fictions can be interwoven with Scheherazade's dusky lovers. One or two people out of almost a hundred so far, besides you, get this.
A line like this, "I don't intend to sell stock on a dating site therefore don't see the point in spelling myself out to the world," is so brilliant, I don't know why a thousand young gentleman have not pulled their letter-openers out of their books, and thrust the points of them into their hearts for you. I would. And yet, I am still awaiting the return flight of Saint-Exupéry, and must warn him of the simoom I fear will take down his small aircraft just over the next sand-crest. I would. And yet, I am awaiting the lanterns of Arabia to close their eyes, and for the stars overhead to hold in their nocturnal gazes the agonies of the sleeping until the morrow, when work and toil and pointless fig-tossing renews iself, as always. I would myself, except it is I now who follows you, Eurydice, a poor, bare-foot, broken-stringed Orpheus who will disappear forever the moment you look at him instead. So, bury me.
Egbert
# 97
