The letter arrives today; A4-sized, white, imprinted details written in a style I know so well, slightly crumpled. The two stamps glued on it are united by a halo of ink, rendering them worthy for collection, useless for practical purposes.

  I stare and stare and then tremblingly tear its flap.

  A tiny soul lives in there.

  A letter within a letter.

  And through that thin sheet of printed paper, its criss-cross fibres of white held up by van der Waals, I see the ghost of it.

  The sun is peeking. The river heaves sighs, its diaphragm relaxing, draining off what that is excess. All is well.