20 February 2008
Dear Lorne,

When you look back to when you were thinking ahead to where you would be by now, it can turn your brain inside out if you ask too many questions. While things may seem to be rolling along beyond prior expectation, at the start who really could do any thing more than take a wild guess how it would all work out. Time that seemed to be frittered away pondering the elusive evolution of something that defies a definitive form, can in fact provide the mental exercise resulting in greater agility, so that once the actual writing starts, things come out of nowhere.

Thirty years ago, did you have the slightest clue what chain of events you were helping set in motion? On the top of your world you cast five tiny snowballs to the wind, never anticipating that at least one would keep gathering momentum and stature as it tumbled down that slope whose bottom is where we choose it to be, roaring back from the past, boomerang with swagger.

While in theory, any letter could be the last, when comparing present creative capacity to what it was when this project began, this snowball has grown to epic proportion. How you choose to benefit from this is of course for you to decide. These letters won't continue indefinitely, though they probably could if I set my mind to it and had nothing better to do. There will come a point when it will be determined that bothering you any further will have become redundant.
Consider these as a table of contents to a book we have yet to burn. 

The mighty snowball rumbles ominously down the mountain of unfettered folly, riding the crest of an avalanche that can bury us both beneath a blanket of bravado. This mind mauling morph into madness merely mocks my motives, making my mood more muddy, melting mental mettle, methodically, mercilessly, merrily, man what a mess. What a wall of whiteness weighing in wonder of which way is up? Blurred be the boundary between where brilliance bewilders
and babble abounds.

Merely a matter of time before this snowball ends with a splat, dispersed in random direction, crumbling away to slush, evaporated in the harsh light of reality;
may it hopefully be remembered for its moment of glory, if nothing else.

Let it snow,