AN ECHO OF ONTOLOGY - PART ONE

Jean, you could have never written No Exit for Seattle, Washington. I’m positive the weather would have climaxed rather uniformly with the script, though your mind was occupied of being of mind, hushing the tiny variables of essence, scrambling around after ink and its consciousness of death. I am somehow reminded of you and your play that I so affectionately read as a young girl, though some Persian boy uttered those first lines in some Paris flat in May 1944: \"So here we are?\" I can hear them in a letter that has just arrived. Dated a year and six months late. The letter nursed the air, as Inez, in that room of despair; confessing to her acts of seduction. Seduction in a hotel room, downtown Chicago, after a month of Chai with one drop of liquid vanilla to chase it down my throat, there were no stars on my hips, though you inferred as much. Oh, Inez, in your mirror there is nothing but this letter that I am attempting to frisk. I had taken the fire escape down fourteen flights, the interior concrete of a swank hotel, my lips pressed onto bars of metallic polyrhythm ushering battery level low from my Walkman. Absence outlined so pale and controlled, in eight by eleven cage, if this were a night of playing pool, watching a girl leave through a door, could this letter become her brushfire, a ménage à trois of time and intent.