Dear Don Q.,

I am too weary of conflict to carry out the cultural battle plans announced in my last letter. The ensuing trench warfare convinces me that the community to which I belong will never be the same again and that all my surplus vigor is being bled away and stamped out. I have attacked them all sufficiently enough in what can only be described as dehumanizing fiction (hallways, rambling), and I live a life consonant with the austerity of my constant abstract visions. Before I knew quite what I was doing, I found myself scrawling with loving care yet another corporal signaller to you, to plant my words upon your ... let us first confirm that your address remains quixotic.

Yours,

Hamlet