My vision of paradise recently shattered, I had no recourse, nowhere to turn. To whom do I devote my desire to love? A spiritual, an emotional, a libidinal economic problem. Such beauty in the smallest places. I’m suddenly overthrown, and my vision is restored: I received a postcard.

Let me explain: an evening in January, unseasonably warm. My old mailbox of advertisements and bills became, for a moment, the place of dreams. How could I describe my fevered first reading, the way my eyes focused on each cursive letter, the way the form and content mingled to become one marvelous whole? How could I describe her tempestuous flow, her sonorous lines that mingle beauty and death so as to render them inextricable?

She writes of nightgowns, diamond earrings, the luxurious red fabric mess of her bed. She imagines how her body will look when she is found after the poison has taken hold: the imprint of lipstick on the wine glass,

At the decisive moment, she steps away from her fate, preferring to dream of window shopping. I breathed a sigh of relief, remembering that a moment is the most one can ask of perfection. I then wondered, where do I go from here? What reply is possible? Her words stand alone, resolute, light as stone. The stamp beside reads, ‘Letters mingle souls.’ Now I know.