To The Last Thing I Write (first letter)

Dearest,
If I’m somehow able to decide it, you’ll be one continuous thread, weaving over and across yourself, perpetually knotting up within your own turning, twisting and overlap, getting denser, thicker, more rigid, while always still alarmingly fragile, threatening to unravel with the slightest of unintentional pressures or distraction, with readers misdirected by anxious anticipations of immanent collapse, but of course and after all, none of what I’m describing has happened
(yet)
and perhaps it never will, even though the possibility haunts the most neurotically alert and sober states of my being, and may continue to do so until, at long last, you really do come into existence, in a manner that suggests you’ve always already arrived, fully formed, instantaneous and whole, in part because I too, despite being your author, will likely be the same as any other reader to encounter you, never remembering what we both were or where my head was at as we began our engagement, or as I started to worry about your undoing, or what we were doing at any point in any related process beyond whatever happened to be the present moment at the time
(with you always demanding my full attention, my utmost concentration, so as not to lose the thread of you, to have you slip through my grasp, out and away from the eye of my struggling needle, beyond the delusions of control I might unwittingly retain until the culmination of such a disastrous moment)
and this is probably when I’ll begin to suspect you were/are a kind of impossible memoir, that the specific structure you’ve meticulously developed, this particular genre you’ve inhabited, dissolved and reconstructed, has been an inevitability, if only because you’ll surely cover everything I’ve ever considered and experienced in sequence, with such all-consuming detail, such obsessive particularity, that any awareness of the ongoing, ever-changing presentness of the text, the writing as it’s read, will erase all other forms of attention and accumulative recall, to the extent that no one, including myself, will ever be able to remember your title, except perhaps at that lost moment of the beginning, or the various aborted title ideas, accumulated silently over the course of my entire life and mentioned in passing throughout the remainder of your being, such as A Flock Of Napkins, Real Handy, It Used To End When I Was Finished Singing, I Can’t Stop Shaking As You Openly Mock Me, etc.
We have time to work this out (at least I hope so).
jeremy