I wish I could invite you out here. Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure you’d really like it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t invite you. I don’t have any invitations left. You only get so many see, and I sent the last one about a year ago. You’d think I’d be lonely by now. Well, I don’t know, maybe I am. It’s hard to say, you know sadness is just sadness. I’m either sad or I’m not. You know better than anyone that loneliness is just sadness adorned in specificity and definition. It’s a bit pretentious if you ask me. My point is, I feel all right, I’m not so sad, not most of the time, so don’t spend so much time worrying about me. And for god’s sake, please stop telling people I’m dead. Dead is such a silly word anyway. Dead, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
From the looks of your last letter, it seems that you haven’t understood much of anything I’ve told you. I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve come up with some advice for you. Here it is: if by chance you encounter a piece of imagery while reading my letters, I encourage you to examine it through a kaleidoscope, magnifying glass, telescope, or perhaps the lens of your grandmother’s cataract. Any of these helpful tools will bring you closer to the truth of my words than you could ever achieve with your naked mind’s eye.
I hope this helps.