Dear reader, did you know that I can reverse-spy on you? I have a statcounter and sometimes I look at it, and it tells me what city you’re in, and that makes my head spin, because you’re from so many different places, places I have never been- little towns in the desert and along both coasts and up into Canada and on Tuesday someone in Mexico looked at my blog three hundred times, which sets a sort of record for most page-views from a single browser. And still I wonder- are you out there? Where are you, right now? How old are you? Is it morning, afternoon, or evening? Are you in the midst of making breakfast, checking your email, scanning several blogs at once? Are you leaning on your kitchen table, has your cup of tea gone cold? Are you late for work? Is life ever so ordinary? No, there is always something else- stormclouds threatening on the horizon or just above, feeling like they might crush you, like you have to run, run to keep ahead of them, attempting not to fall. Something tragic has always just happened, or is about to happen, to you or someone that you love. And if not, the boredom of life! What monotony! Or joy, that rare thing, that so many of us exhaust so early in life, and can never manage to find again. But right now you are cooking breakfast, in spite of all of it! These moments, that continue to pass! Are you not as astounded by it as I am? And I am curious for your story, dear reader. You have some of my secrets, and there is part of me that wants some of yours. But no matter how hard I look at my computer screen, good-hearted stranger, I will never see you. The audience is always dark and I am up here all alone, and can only write you anonymous letter after anonymous letter, from now until forever. But they are not anonymous! They are for you, after all. I may not know your motivations, hopes and fears, I may not know the color of your hair or the foods you eat for breakfast- if it is always something different or the same thing, day after day, cooked in a cast-iron skillet the way I cook mine- but in a sense I do know you. I know you like I know myself- and in a sense I do know your motivations, hopes and fears, because they are my motivations, hopes and fears. In a sense I know you because I carry you around inside of me, everywhere that I go- the way we carry the ocean around inside of us, the way we feel a familiarity for the stars, the way we long for things we no longer remember- and as much as we wonder where it is we are, as much as we wonder who we are, and where we might be going- it has to be, right now and tomorrow morning- it has to be enough that we exist. I exist, dear reader! And this is my letter to you! My personal letter to you, like a real paper envelope that the mail carrier drops off, with dented corners from its long overland journey, clanging in the metal mailbox, on the best afternoon of your life- because I know you, dear reader, like I know my own heart, like I know the way the winter rain feels, cold and dense, like being underwater, and I wanted to write to you, to remind you that I haven’t forgotten- I haven’t forgotten about you! And I wanted to tell you that I believe, with all of my guts and soul and everything, that YOU EXIST TOO.