Bang, bang, bang … there’s your massacre.

No, wait, we can simplify things a little. Simplify them a lot.

That is to say, your letter excites me sexually.

There you have it.

LET US NOW address the topic of sex.

[Thud, thud, thud]

MORE KNOCKING.

You know, if this doesn’t interest you, you can stop the tape. I’m just talking to myself, blabbering away to the VU meters. Blah, blah, blah.

Okay?

PICTURE THIS: Short forearms with five fingers, but singularly huge hind legs with four toes, the fourth of which is immensely overdeveloped, while the second and third are extra tiny and fused together … that’s a description of the feet of a kangaroo. Ha, ha, ha.

UH, MOVING ON to the topic of sex.

Ever since I took your letter home with me, all I can seem to think about is sleeping with you. That I’ll climb into bed to find you next to me, wake up in the morning and there you’d be. As I open my eyes you’ll already be getting out of bed, and I’ll hear you zipping up your dress. There I’d be—and you know how delicate the zipper on a dress can be—well, I’d just shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I wouldn’t even set eyes on you.

Once you cut across the room and disappeared into the bathroom, only then would I open my eyes. Then I’d get a bite to eat and head out to work.

In the pitch-black of night—I’ll install special blinds on my windows to make the place extra pitch-black—of course, I wouldn’t see your face. I’d know nothing, not your age or weight. So I wouldn’t lay a hand on you, either.

But, well, that’s fine.

If you really want to know, it makes no difference whatsoever if I have sex with you or not….

No, I take that back.

Let me think that one over.

OKAY, let’s put it this way. I would like to sleep with you. But it’s all right if I don’t sleep with you. What I’m saying is, I’d like to be as fair as possible. I don’t want to force anything on anybody, any more than I’d want anything forced on me. It’s enough that I feel your presence or see your commas swirling around me.

YOU SEE, it’s like this:

Sometimes, when I think about entities—like in “separate entities”—it gets mighty grim. I start thinking, and I nearly go to pieces….

For instance, say you’re riding on the subway. And there are dozens of people in the car. Mere “passengers” you’d have to call them, as a rule. “Passengers” being conveyed from Aoyama One-chome to Akasakamitsuke. Sometimes, though, it’ll strike you that each and every one of those passengers is a distinct individual entity. Like, what does this one do? Or why on earth do you suppose that one’s riding the Ginza Line? Or whatever. By then it’s too late. You let it get to you and you’re a goner.