To The Book I Could Write That No One Will Read (first letter)

You will give me a reason. You’ll give me something to do.
The years will seem less daunting and I won’t need much money. We will defy the world (or perhaps, more accurately, I’ll just try to ignore it). You will be my archive of ideas — a time-capsule of evidence — of what I can’t say exactly. It’s too irksome to think about with any seriousness.
You will be a book of many books, an accumulation of ideas, a chain of dialectical syntheses leading to a final conclusion. You will help me understand everything. Through your completion I will finally grasp the present in its totality. Writing you will take me past an interpretation of others to an authentic invention of an autonomous self (incidentally recreating the Library of the World). No one will know it — not even me.
I will pay the necessary fees to have you bound by an expert, using only the finest of leathers, adhesives and stitching techniques. I will put you on a basement shelf of a building I will live in many years from now. You will collect dust and quite possibly be relocated to a cardboard box full of other forgotten objects.
I will resume figuring out what to do with my life.
You will outlast me but you will still fall apart.
Maybe the planet will blow up.
You will eventually breakdown and reconfigure — becoming a part of any number of things I’ll never imagine.