Anyway, talking to you like this, I get the feeling I’ve become the Egyptian Sandman myself. And whatever I touch, it’s sand sand sand.

ONCE AGAIN, I see I’m talking about myself too much. But all things considered, it’s unavoidable. I mean, I don’t even know one solitary thing about you. I’ve got your address and your name, and that’s it. Your age, income bracket, the shape of your nose, whether you’re slender or overweight, married or not—what do I know? Not that any of that really matters. It’s almost better this way. If at all possible, I prefer to keep things simple, very simple—on the metaphysical level, if you will.

To wit, here I have your letter.

This is all I need.

Just as the zoologist collects shit samples in the jungle from which to deduce the elephant’s dietary habits and patterns of activity and weight and sex life, so your one letter gives me enough to go on. I can actually sense what kind of person you are. Of course, minus your looks, the kind of perfume you wear, details like that. Nonetheless—your very essence.

Your letter was, honestly, quite fascinating. Your choice of words, the handwriting, punctuation, spacing between lines, rhetoric—everything was perfect. Superlative it was not. But perfect, yes.

Every month, I read over five hundred letters, and frankly, yours was the first letter that ever moved me. I secretly took your letter home with me and read it over and over again. Then I analyzed your letter thoroughly. Being such a short letter, it was no trouble at all.

Many things came to light through my analysis. First of all, the number of punctuation marks is overwhelming. 6.36 commas for every period. On the high side, don’t you think? And that’s not all: The way you punctuate is markedly irregular.

Listen, please don’t think I’m putting down your writing. I’m simply moved by it.

Enthralled.

And it’s not just the commas, either. Every part of your letter—down to each ink smear—everything set me off, everything shook me.

Why?

Well, the long and the short of it is that there’s no you in the whole piece of writing. Oh, there’s a story to it, all right. A girl—a woman—makes a mistake buying a record. She had the feeling the record had the wrong tunes, but still, she went ahead and bought it, and it’s exactly one week before she realizes. The salesgirl won’t exchange it. So she writes a letter of complaint. That’s the story.

I had to reread your letter three times before I grasped the story. The reason was, your letter was completely different from all the other letters of complaint that come our way. To put it bluntly, there wasn’t even any complaint in your letter. Let alone any emotion. The only thing that was there … was the story.

Really and truly, you had me wondering. Was the letter in fact intended as a complaint or a confession or a proclamation, or was it perhaps meant to put forth some thesis? I had no idea. Your letter reminded me of a news photo from the scene of a massacre. With no commentary, no article, no nothing—just a photo. A shot of dead bodies littering some roadside in some country somewhere.