To A Book I Write That Will Be Forgotten (first letter)

Existence is expanding as the past accumulates.  It’s all too much, but I still think you’ll help me.  Has an inventory of everything ever been possible?  More is lost and less perceived (let alone understood) with each moment leaving the present.  There’s an increasing density of life and death that will never be recognized or recorded.  This growth of erasure compounds as each future joins the past, across the known, the never-known and the never-to-know.  The present is in crisis as remembrance hemorrhages.
So I’m going to make sure you’re full of ruminations and detours, sustaining a microcosm that’s knowingly going nowhere, always saying the same things in different ways about the rootlessness of consciousness and our exile within modernity.  There’ll be characters without plots.  Some will be fussing over diaries, travel memoirs, letters and misremembered conversations or arguments.  Others will be in the midst of living off the grid or planning the destruction of the world.  Most will be unwittingly fixated.  They’ll take long walks, talk to themselves and reminisce.
You and I will merge as a collection of intimated fragments, waiting to be swept up, inspected, interpreted or passed over, by who knows what or when.  We’ll never have a concerted sense of ourselves.  Why bother?  Nothing directs the indifference waiting us out.  You’ll be another good read that isn’t read.  I’ll write you with this in mind and should even remember you for a time after forgetting myself.
I might also be the first between us to slip away forever.