Perhaps you are wondering why I haven't written for awhile, proposing that you publish some voluminous collection of my many, many essays.
I haven't had the heart.
You, a publisher of literature, of all these wondrous books I have shared my life with, seem so distant and glorious, like as one among a distant pantheon of unreachable gods. Or better you are glorious and untouchable like the very stars in the sky. You are too far and strange and incandescent. What is there for me but to wonder at your cold, mysterious light? Would I petition the stars? And if, mercurially, I chose to do so, would I take their magisterial silence as an encouragement?
No. I will let it be. I am not called. I will not be the voice of anyone but my own peculiar self. You will run your kingdoms as you will.
But nevertheless, sometimes, late at night, pouring over my work, I will wander out onto my balcony and look up.