To Readers Of Not Sent Letters (second letter)

Dear Readers,
Someone addressed in a Not Sent Letter has found out about it and gotten in touch with me. A diegetic breach like this could be overwhelming — a conceptual spoiler to permanently upset the balance of the project.
Was I ever a disembodied voice (speaking perhaps from death or the couch)? I’m not sure I can handle this. Panic is threatening to propel me somewhere I don’t want to go.
In this particular instance, however, a benign third party has crossed the wires and all realities remain stable.
Then again, maybe not. I’m wondering about things I used to dismiss: Are we the stories we tell ourselves? Do we become the stories we tell ourselves? Are we comprised in part of stories we’ve never had anything to do with?
Paradise Lost is in my head:
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?
At least Sean G. and I are back in touch.