The Black Envelope

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COMRADE OREST,

I approached him at last. It seems Chatterbox does not want to talk to me. He answers politely and tries to get away as fast as he can. Narcissus? I know that for him, too, days and nights are divided into hours for eating and shitting and sperm, films, sleep, clinic. That’s all, he’s not a Martian. The key aspect remains the economy, I know. Precisely here people forget the great Marxist discovery: being determines consciousness, not the opposite. The capitalists have learned to use the weapon well. That’s the real question, the central point; that’s where the stethoscope should be placed, I know. It’s not like thirty years ago! What matters isn’t what you think but what you eat and how you pay for it. Since we’re all state property, it’s easy to find the answer. Economic studies also become political and psychological, I know that. The great human dilemmas? In a place without paper, even toilet paper? Do you remember what I requested for our correspondence? Durable, good-quality paper, that’s what I asked for! Acid-free paper, acid-free, that’s what I wanted. You gaped in astonishment. You couldn’t believe I wasn’t afraid of paper that lasts; that is, of my own actions. Then you understood what kind of correspondent you were dealing with, I know that. No whining, complaints, and retractions, as with so many others … Forgive me: I’ve been rather drifting from the subject. It’s my bad mood after meeting one of those people who like to put on airs. Their mysteries aren’t worth a penny, believe me. I know that: they’re state property, too. I’ve also got other reasons, it’s true. Uncle hasn’t received any medicine for two weeks. He’s on the point of exploding, I know. The only hope is for you to step in, as usual. Otherwise no one will do their duty, I know that.