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

Dearest One,
I’ve decided to fill you with image and text — forgetting and mindfulness.
Each picture leads to the unknowableness of things (and the inevitable passing of whatever exists).  I’ll write to some and away or around others.
I’ll be true to life, to being alive (no embellishments, rearrangements or omissions), never allowing my writing to be subsumed by the pretenders of history, the strategists of circumstance and opportunity.  My words will retain their integrity in the face of society.
I’ve got big plans for us.  Yes, the years will still seem less daunting.  You’ll still give me something to do and I won’t need much money.  There could even be more to it in the end, something concretely formative.
We’ll contain everything at once in process, revealing the contingency of all events despite a collapse of tenses.  It can seem, even now, as though one could start and finish with us anywhere, at any time, but no one ever has or will.  That’s the eternal for you.   I’ve written you before and I’ll write you again.