Dear Marianne,

Last night I lay awake for hours, staring at death. I knew with certainty that I am soon to die. I saw with the clarity of the bodiless soul, my own face, my own words, my own small wake.
I did not find any great answer. I did not take from this any profound lesson. It is a blessing and a curse that I have known since I was six years old. For many nights I have lain awake, knowing hard truths that cannot help me. I am glad to be sure of the world. I am heartbroken, too.

Around eight in the morning I fell asleep. I was woken at nine by a knock at the door. I cancelled some important meetings. I told them I was ill. This was not, after all, a complete lie.

Later in the day, I stood before a room of great minds. They had travelled from all over the world. It was with a sickening inevitably that they accepted every word. They took from me a truth I do not know. They looked to me, and I gave them something resembling progress. Poor fools.

I smoked, for the first time in a few days. Do not be angry. Though I feel my lungs ache, as I limp through the streets of central London, I cannot find a good reason to change.

I cannot find a good reason for many things.

Marianne, as you know, Dean is a crazy son of a bitch. He set me up. I met her outside a dreary pub. I threw my cigarette to the gutter and I kissed her on the cheek. I bought her beer and I could see that she was nervous. Unsure. But I knew. She was Canadian, after all. I imagined you there, watching, laughing.

After a few drinks she was open and smiling. She said something beautiful. She described rowing in a boat in a lake, her niece clutching all her dolls, scared they would fall into the water. This was just the kind of sacred secret shit you used to say to me, back in the day.
As she spoke, her eyes reddened with tears.

It was the weakness I know too well. It was the moment of exposure. This intelligent woman, this traveller and carrier of fire - she was naked for me.
I was sickened again. I have been there too many times, at the point of advantage. All it would take would be to go on looking into her eyes and listen.

Listen: I realise now that my withdrawal from the world was not so rash. Not so much a sign of damage as of learning. I had grown tired of hurting women. I had grown tired of feeling their pain. To my shame, Marianne, I fucked Deanna just weeks ago. Do not be angry.
It was meaningless and all too easy. It was mechanical and cheap. I do not want to take from women what they offer, when they do not understand what it is that I will take. At the same time, I do not want to be without proposition. I do not want to be without the means of carnage.

And so, walking down the main street, I saw the excitement of Dean's friend. She was a curious beauty. Her face on the border of the sublime and the ugly. From one expression to the next, she moved from stirring to unnerving. This was a cold and hard observation. It was not born of love. She must have been a heart breaker in her twenties. Most men, I know, will find her stunning still. Gaelle tells me so. She is 34, and I believe that she is weary.

I always take a while to warm to looks. You, oh great model of our age, with your damaged pride, know this. She does not have the Bollywood glamour and feminine grace of our old Full Moon, nor the simmering heat of Anna's carnal attitude. Of course she would not draw the attention of all the eyes in the room - not if you happened to be there too. But she is much prettier than me. Much prettier than most. Anyway, Marianne, you know what matters most to me. I think she is as funny as you. A different kind of humour. And fiercely intelligent. So you see, I have the guilt of the tiger hunter.

At the tube station, she lingered. It reminded me of the blind date with the American. I kept the beast in its cage. Scratching, howling, it could do nothing and I prevailed. I hugged her goodbye and let her go. Rather the guilt of a wasted catch than the guilt of a sated appetite.

Of course, I may be looking at this all wrong. It's just, I feel all the familiar sensations. I recognise all the old affectations. I know myself. I know the damage I can do.

At home, smoking on the balcony, the world was quite silent. No moon. My mind remained clear. Since I have made my return, I have found myself out in the open. To my great shame, my publisher forced me to open a Twitter account. Like some shit version of some half-decent Brit, they want me to break America. I'm too half-arsed. What am I becoming? I spent much of this evening expressing my rage. An impotent rage. And even this caught her.
But in all the activity, the frenetic exchange of image and recognition, my mind remains clear. My finger lingered over the phone - I knew just what to write to make her happy. And I stopped myself. There is no good reason to reel her in. There is no good reason to be kind or sweet or charming.
Instead, I choose to be disconnected. Let the world take care of itself. I will swim with the current of the uninvested river. I do not wish to wreak my havoc anymore.

Marianne, I hope you still sleep soundly and wake with wonder. Do not worry about me anymore. I am at peace with my conflict. I am intent to love my family and my friends, and all those broken hearts who fall so low as to need what I can give. Beyond this, I move to limit my casual disruption of the universe. I move to listen, but no more to consume.

Sleep be with you, sweetheart.

Your friend