Letter to Ken

Dear Ken,
I have just finished the manuscript, and I must say, everything we discussed those late nights in my office appears to be present and/or accounted for. Your ability to remember astonishes me as I took a familiar and much-needed trek back around the hotel lobby, which I must say, hasn't felt the same since your departure. It was like a grounded shock to all of us, but I think right now, in this deeply warm and reflective moment, I finally understand the why and how.
While questions of my circumstantial disposition in the universe had previously kept me awake with the cuckoos and crickets outside, now I believe it to be true that resting easy with a head full of soluble points of view is just within my grasp, and I have you to thank for that. Your words have infected me as I'm sure they will others, hopefully in the same fashion, and with the same fluffy clouds parting up above all of our hairlines. Even now as I spin in this threadbare office, admiring the ceramic sign on the window (a gift from your wife that I have yet to meet, but pray to greet with open arms sooner than later) I find it difficult to fully express my gratitude for you, for showing me a light that I was certain burned out years ago.
However, now as the front desk is marked with the initials of new and fractured lovers, I sense that this forward wave (I'm sure we've both dreamt about individually in our separate numbered rooms) has finally taken hold again, and now there is not one singularly dazzling force holding us back. We are all returning to the roofs and mountaintops with round eyes shooting towards the roots, digging them up with our bare hands, and replanting the dry siphoned branches across the cracked sidewalks and bruised backyards of our original birth corners. We are kicking back the trampled remains of our former selves and revitalizing our mangled expressions with the blissful mischief of children tagging each other with clenched fists on their tattered basement couches.
I see your vision Ken, as if it were my own, and I will make it my life's mission to spread these words, to let them be passed down the chain like dusty heirlooms patiently awaiting the next tornado. I will puncture the yolk of your brilliance, and fry the friendly cells of each and every fleshy example that decides to re-examine their primary function upon entering into my well-kept palace. I will teach them the balance of their perpetual motions, bending the rules with the certainty and strain of a new mother birthing her first victim. I will let them hide in their rooms until they are ready to pierce the spider web on the wall, letting their fingers stick to the contours before grasping the hands of others and lifting their strong and sturdy arms into the frail night air, perceptive and aware of this next tremendous step.
I leave you with only one substantial request, and gasp at the inclination of doing so, since I know how busy the fall can be. If you could possibly find and look after my daughter, Josephine, who has by some fickle miracle grown up and into a rebellious wonder that I am proud and fearful of at the same time. She will be a source of dynamite and clutter if, and only if, you make the right first impression. I never did, but something whispers to me that you may have better luck.
I remain your fellow listener in Euclid,
Raymond Vaughn