To The Writing On The Wall (first letter)

Thank you for taking the time to be with me, patiently, incrementally, never demanding anything per se or causing immediate obstructions.  I know there can be a lot of risk involved.  I sincerely appreciate the paradox of indirect obviousness you supply, and the pained review process I would otherwise avoid in surmising the validity of various goals and my strategies for achieving them (not to mention the need to put up with what and whomever). Your inferred advice, in bearing witness to reality (or?), is very helpful if one can deduce whatever that might be in each instance and heed it.  New perspectives on available opportunities become unavoidable.  Prior assumptions can be revealed.
I must be able to look and read of course, and in these moments with you, these instances of recognition, of acknowledgement, a relationship out of time is established with an absent subject, an author (perhaps more than one — perhaps an army).  I especially appreciate your offer (or at least the one I’ve assumed of you) to connect me to others in your networks. I plan on following up with the contacts that are made and the obligations that have been established and those that wait to be proposed, whether I agree with them or not, right away.  The past is never past (I think I got that from you, across something, somewhere).  The need for context and interpretation is bound up in your being.  Who does something about it in any given instance?  The inactive agency of all concerned emerges, awaiting utilization.
Each version of you arrives as the latest surface fragment upon a vast, accumulating (and potentially terminal) palimpsest.  You join and momentarily bracket all that’s come before, the countless layers of destruction, creation, decency and betrayal, all the being, making and forgetting, the power-grabs and usurpations.  You direct me to futures waiting to be formed.  Fate becomes fiction when we work together now.