Why haven't you been returning my calls?
I remember once, in happier times, you told me that you wanted to understand. You wanted to know everything. It's one of the things that made you so damn attractive. And you asked me if there was anywhere we could go to find out everything there was to know. And I said there was, but I didn't think you'd like Wall Street. And Birkenau was too far away.
Because, you see, in capitalist societies man oppresses man. But in Soviet Russia, it was the other way around.
Damn, I miss you. Why did you run away? Did you not believe me? Did I come on too strong? Didn't you see that I could make it all so real? We could have a house in the subdivisions, a concrete pillbox in a suburban Paschendale. We'd give money to the church (when we had it) and have snowball fights in July. Our toaster would gleam in shining chrome so bright the sun would wither and die.
I don't have a thousand ships to launch, but I could send flowers, or maybe a box of chocolates if you like. We could talk over coffee. I think that would be nice. Please call me, I'm dying in here.
