I have crash-landed in the radioactive desert outside of a relatively nasty hive-city. We survivors are scavenging the hillbilly- and dire-wolf-infested countryside for spare parts, supplies, and food, but the ship itself is an irreparable hulk. Due to a Warp storm, the nearest rescue ship is years away.
I'm writing in this book and broadcasting it across the Grid in the foolish hope that it will reach you. I don't need to contact anyone else, of course, just you. I've missed you; for a long time I've missed you. It's lonely in the dark, here. The Void holds many terrors, as mayhap your dreams have spoken of.
You know that what I've sought is what you have sought: help in the Great Work, as described by Aleister Crowley. It is a stony soil to bring forth crops when the workers are few. I do not claim prowess, only desire, but even desire is flagging. The Universe has need of people of good will and skill. Can we still muster these against the onrushing collapse of the Empire? Or is a candled, quotidian, inoffensive life all we have left to us?
What wars of the soul have you fought? Are you bereft, like Sadak, on the shores of black infinities?
How aware are you of your instincts? Men and women are evolved creatures, and being mammals we have differing instincts for different sexes. I study this, but I wonder after your answers.
What do you hate, I wonder? That's a surer view to one's Self than one's fancies. I don't mean easy things to hate like Hitler or adulterers or people who kill kittens. I mean hating, for instance:
* television for the reality-deforming, capitalistic waste of time that it is, or, one better,
* Political Correctness as a redundant, truth-rotting regimen of scraping before the conquerors of Western Civilisation; of
* "fashion" as industry and brainwashing; of
* "cuteness" seen in grotesque, pop-eyed anthropomorphisms; of
* religious pluralism begging the question of why have a religion at all; of
* so-called "artificial intelligence" and its potential to autismify society by filling it with compelling simulacra bearing false intimacy; of
* the death of Western Civilisation and all its unparalleled promise...
All I can do now is wait. Either the beacon shall shine through to its intended, or it shall not.
Yours in exile,