Dear Cyndy,

My memory has tricked me again. I thought I had answered your
most recent letter, but I don't think that's the case.
I sympathize with you about your $1000 per telephone hour
lawyer. Please remember that although not as smart, I would
charge you somewhat less for the pleasure of speaking with you 
on the 'phone.

My mind has kept itself busy chewing the cud of my estate
plans, with the predictable consequences that in the course
of several days, I've been sleeping longer hours and more
soundly, developing a specific immunity to this particular
absurdity and mendacity of the society, and delighting in the
circumstance that by the time the bills come due, I'll be
dead and they can't hurt me. The IRS makes death more and
more attractive and I'm duly grateful to them for helping
me derive satisfaction from the anticipation of shuffling
off this mortal coil, - to borrow Hamlet's words.

Of course, I feel sorry for Klemens to leave him in so
oppressive a world. But then, again, I understand what a
liberating experience it will be for him to be rid of me,
once he has become accustomed to the idea that he no longer
needs to justify, - or even explain to me what he is doing;
and can start over again. I've pointed out to him, that
taking care of four houses is a tall order, and he should
cultivate the feeling of relief, the sense of freedom that
he might have, if they take three of them away from him.

The progress of my novel seems slow but sure. I've got everyone
in jail, lodged in a single large cell where they can converse
with each other and elaborate their political philosophies.
I don't yet know how long I'll keep them there; but long enough
to hear the last word on justice.  I can't think of any venue
which would be more appropriate than a jailhouse for discovering
the secrets of society.

We still get many visitors: chickadees, titmice, and especially
hummingbirds, their silky green backs gleaming in the sunlight
as they perch in front of the grotesque red plastic petals of
the feeder; deer show up on the lawn, yesterday a wild turkey,
and vultures circle overhead, peer down at us, wondering
impatiently what's holding up the show.

I ask forgiveness for my sardonic mood; I'll try to do better
in the next letter. Say Hello to Ned, and try to be happy.
Jochen