To Science Fiction (first letter)

By the time I’d discovered TV, everything seemed to be changing. You were suddenly a fast-money phenomena. I didn’t have the language for it then (or now), but still remember feeling a strange, almost physical sense of hollowness in the core of my body.
Your latest novelties would appear completely devoid of substance. When you weren’t remolding the past to suit the present, you were busy pretending it was a vision of tomorrow. It’s as if I missed out on a time when people tried to imagine the future.
Your stories make up a museum of endgame formulations and transfigured Westerns. They’re like re-runs of the apocalypse from an infinite variety of parallel universes.
Time and space have collapsed under the weight of the marketplace.
There’s been no future for decades now.
I still believe, however, that you’re capable of introducing the present to us as if it were the past. You’ve got to try, if only for an instant, if only to argue for a possibility of things as they might be, to suggest an awareness of everything in process at once — to construct a hypothetical totality of the moment — an understanding to move on from.