It is the one-year anniversary of The Way of The Dodo, and so my thoughts turn to you. Writing to you here has been a great pleasure, and I have but one regret. I think I shall name this regret "True Feeling." I name it thus, because I see, peripherally, the big gap, the missing chunk in the proscenium; and this absence is as in describing the sea, to a person raised inland of anything but a small lake: How can one taste the salt? Feel the grit of foam-floated sand? Or smell the myriad creatures and plants decaying on the air? One cannot. One cannot describe it but in smallest part, and one cannot imagine it but in smallest shade.
And yet, you know that you must go to the sea yourself. Here, then, is the ineffable, with its lack of True Feeling, once more, for your pleasure: