We have spilled much ink, you and I, in our discussion of human connection, but we’re no closer to understanding than we were when our correspondence began. I often feel as if I’m standing on one side of a wide chasm, shouting across, wondering if the response I hear comes from you or if it is my own voice, echoing back to me. It seems to me, on my side of the canyon, the search for unity with another is the front of much of the world’s unhappiness. I watch as Watson, eager as ever to extract some meaning from the prevailing social conventions, endures a series of curated mating rituals. It seems to me that she’s incrementally less content each time she returns from one. I conduct myself as though I’m above matters of the heart, chiefly because I have seen them corrode people I respect. But in my candid moments I sometimes wonder if I take the stance I do because love, for lack of a better word, is a game I fail to understand, so I opt not to play. After all, if I truly had the purity of all my convictions, I wouldn’t regret so many of the things I’ve done, nor would I resist against so many of my better instincts in this correspondence. I find you a challenge, one that in spite of all that you’ve done, continues to stimulate. And so the conversation, futile though it may finally be, continues, and we are left to wonder if we simply fail to find the answers to the questions that preoccupy us, or can they not be answered at all? Fortunately, for both of us, the world always presents the next diversion, the next elaborate distractions from the problems that vex.