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If by “cold script” you mean the vast, perfect arrangement of gears that each of your envelopes passes through upon arrival, which stamps your original message out in a font I created myself from obscure constellations, then folds it into a paper balloon in the standard method, ignites a small tea light hung from the bottom, thusly turning it into a backlit artificial star-scape AND working lighter-than-air craft, which alerts me to your letter by floating into my darkened study, projecting the stars that are your message onto the walls, which I read while laying on my back while listening to live whale songs, then yes. Guilty as charged. I plan to keep doing it. Attach whatever you want with your letters, but I will only glance dismissively at them. There’s a reason I twist your letters into my own ideal image, Ben. And I’ll tell it to you when you’re older.
I saw two movies this weekend. One was Resident Evil: Extinction. It was even worse than I expected. Let’s put it this way, they bill the movie as taking place in a post zombie-apocalyptic Las Vegas. The reality: they briefly stop for gas in Las Vegas. They are attacked by a shipping container full of specially bred hyper zombies. A cowboy falls off the fake Eiffel Tower, but none of Mila Jovovich’s clothes fall off. I’ve been saying it for years, the Resident Evil film franchise has been going steadily down hill.
Tonight I’m going to see Slim Cessna’s Auto Club. I see them whenever they come within 50 miles of me. I have never ever been disappointed.