Alexastrov, your letter came to me on a peculiarly bright Thursday at dusk. I read it draped in the light of the setting sun, a calm moment to be sure. What wondrous things it contained! I was smitten, and I am naturally inclined to respond in kind.
I too have often pondered the workings of God in the small things. When I sit in a chair, do I inherit that chair’s thoughts and history? Does it know that my bum aches for its smooth embrace when I’m too long afoot? When I drink a glass of water, is the glass jealous of the liquid which will soon meet and make merry with my insides? Who is in charge of the air? Is the metal of a skyscraper glad to be there instead of caked in dirt as the head of a spade?
These questions puzzle me, just as the questions of icicles leave you destitute and foaming at the mouth when you can’t understand what they’re saying. I too wonder if ice laments, if new icicles are cousins or brothers, and how their work days are organized. Are they asexual? Are they indeed.
Your analysis of clouds is also quite intriguing, and your letter put me on a similar path of inquisition. I believe, my dear friend, that clouds are God and as we are water, we are water vapor, and as such we, too, are God. Are clouds happy? How can they be when we are God? Alexastrov, I miss our conversations. I am surrounded by louts, unwilling or unable to engage in the kind of conversation that puts meaning into my life. Does salad scream when dressed in balsamic? When we watch television are we transcending space and time? Do my children really want food or are they figments of my imagination?
Alexastrov, I await your response. Your words are fuel. Take care, my friend.