Letter to Jeannie

Dear Jeannie,
I wish you were here to see the dazzling wonderment of what we’ve started. It’s been quiet the evolutionary procedure; adaptation occurring almost instantaneously upon their entrances through the revolving doors. These new arrivals fill me with an unexpected sense of joy and amusement that I haven’t felt since our almost doomed introduction that could have been any specific or dangling increment of time ago. I’m not exactly sure considering that I’ve stopped using my watch for fear of too much internal struggle between the cogs.
The strain alone of having to constantly fit into a place of puzzled bewilderment that I indefinitely shaped and programmed to find comfort within a mold of productivity, felt like too much to handle even for the inorganic, and so I let it slowly descend from the peak and the clearing that we found together on that day when it all felt like the proper movements of bliss were succinctly flowing through our bloodstream.
My calendar was burned along with copies of out-dated university textbooks (saved and unable to be returned due to the capitalistic pull toward new editions) that a few dropout and water-marked-certificate-holding followers just happened to bring along with them for the ride. This is why there is no date at the top of this page of correspondence nor will there be another date used by me in the anti-Semitic Roman calendar ever again.
I’ve learned to function on a plane that is more or less completely dependant upon the day today, and I must say result have been shocking to say the least. Never did I think that the infrequent visits of strangers would sustain my constantly wandering heart or my body’s addictions to the unknown. And yet here I sit in the office we tiredly wallpapered together, content, albeit moderately solemn considering that the act of writing this letter is taking at this very instant of anxious and yet motivated absurdity.
I long for the familiar tone of you volumes, no matter what level of agitation is dwelling inside our shared spirits. I miss your touch, which I could elaborate on in detail, but will remain simplistically sound in order to further demonstrate the defiantly changed person I’ve become since you fled my counteractive level of existence. I’m not sure what word you would use for such a departure whether it be a self-inflicted exile, pleasant escape or understated turn towards the new and fleeting, but nevertheless I think I am close to understanding (after much meditation and reflection on the subject of us as something not only greater than the standard but spectacularly profound) that possibly we were simply meant to cross paths and give birth to the sprouted cathedral of this creation I am currently sitting directly in the middle of.
Our forward motion has, in one way or another, started to spark, and yet you remain blinded by the subsequent fireworks, which is okay, and I guess normal despite the fact that we both used to scowl at the standard-issue fleshbags as we abruptly passed them by on the sidewalks of yellow bricked indifference, with no inclination towards apologizing bouncing between us. I could continue this out of tune rant, but I will instead ask or rather state one final question and hope for your response; the return address: a cosmos of primordial thought and creative expression.
Josephine needs to be okay, because, in truth, she is the last relic to what once was, and could still be again.
Hopefully I leave you with questions,
Raymond Vaughn