Dear Cyndy,

This morning I started to write you a letter, which
like some mythological monster grew and grew until it
encompassed some six pages of satire and cynicism 
which may well offend you and which almost certainly
do not belong in a letter to a lady. I offer it as an
attachment for which I apologize and request preemptive
forgiveness.  My father would have rejected it with the
words: That has nothing to do with me. (Das hat mit mir
nichts zu tun.)

I hope that you and Ned are as well as can be expected,
and not unhappy about anything. I'm under my usual 
compulsion to write, but understand at last how fortunate
I am that no one reads what I put out. Else I might be
in real trouble.

Good night.

Jochen