LETTER TO B.B.

 My friend, tell me the cool One-Truth! To whom, and when, will you give an account of yourself on an idle afternoon, when you are a castaway, when you are only covering yourself with barren silence and making up new excuses for your alibi, what have you been doing for thirty-nine years?!

Here and there in your humble, petty little life have come and gone troubles and troubles, enemies and friends. You must have known that you were lying to yourself, for you deliberately deceived your naive childish soul, only by thinking that if you wished, the world and its tangled, confused things would change!

And here you stand, totally bereft, numb... Like a big pile of cow-dung, it's a shame how you'd open your two hairy Enkidu hands, still encouraging, asking for help, to those who never wanted to know you truly, fully, and wondering about the great Nirvana-Semen, when the frivolous accusation swarms upon thee-but how often hast thou deliberately fled from the siege of vindictive but unjust fists and blows of the unjustly rude, for those who cannot be fed by the holy gears of the pondering free-thought are sucked into the decadent chaos of the great, bamboozled mass!

My friend! You too must know very well that the wheel of the world does not stop just because someone has spoken out against injustice, and although it has been twenty years since we last met in our tender youth, and now that we have crossed the symbolic threshold of thirty, our lives and our affairs are going somewhere, and we still have no idea that we are going to be able to see the wheel of the world.