Dearest, senile Richard-
My summer has been most wonderful, filled with lingering naps and indulgent glasses of rich, warm milk. I spend my evenings enjoying the cool breeze that passes through my sunroom and reading books about men from long ago with beards of finest grooming. When strangers pass down the sidewalk outside, they greet me with a friendly wave, and I reciprocate by telling them my name and warning them not to read my mind.
On Wednesdays I am visited by Colten, a young man with flaxen hair and slender knuckles. He helps me to balance my checkbook and shop for groceries. He is a functional conversationalist, and, I suspect, a skilled masseuse, though to this point he has refused to touch me, even on my neutral area. We have a private joke where he admonishes me to treat him with basic human dignity after I dip his shoes into containers filled with my own urine. I do not believe he has read my mind yet.
Wednesdays with Colten aside, the days pass aimlessly. I awaken with the imagined sound of a cat saying my full name with perfect enunciation. Sometimes in the evenings I drink more milk and make anonymous threatening phone calls to area businesses. Though my words are obscene and hateful, I assume that the targets of my harassment receive my calls with good humor. I think that having a sense of community spirit is very important.
I received the canister of your hair, and have placed it upon my mantle where it will remain until it is removed. Thank you for shearing yourself.
I hope that this humble note finds you in bright spirits. I will call on you when the weather cools and the world dons its collective sweater with an airbrushed wolf on it. Until then, I hope you enjoy the enclosed jar of mouse preserves.