BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "

We are unknowable. We are nothing.

Later Vollman writes:

"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."