This letter arrived yesterday in the midst of a torrential downpour (I gave the poor mailwoman a slice of provolone) from Agatha Trillenta, the exiled poet of Istria. I publish here with her distinct permission.

"Caro Enrico,

It is a matter of indifference to me, now, after so many long months living in solitude here in the quaint, depopulated, and fundamentally desolate town of Ciopinnara, on the island of Istria, in the middle of the Mediterranean, on the tragic planet now known as Earth (in the Universe commonly understood as, "the Universe"). It is a matter of indifference that my public no longer asks of me, no longer remembers my name, the name of the most beautiful and intelligent poet of the Western World. It is a matter of indifference to me that my books have fallen into the seventh circle of the Second Hand Book Stores throughout Europe, and needless to say have never even been published in America (despite your gallant & tireless efforts, amico - I know, I know!!!).

It is a matter of indifference. And why, you may ask? Because I know that in the depths of the cosmos, where the shades of Michelangelo, David & Monticelli share vino e pane with Dante Alighieri (if he's in a good mood, you never know - & how well I know this, amico!!), I assert that there, in that eternity promised to the way-farer faring forth, my dear "W.H." - there, there, indeed, the lasting & eternal odor of Fromagitude reeks in its beloved nest, among the fervent flock (ever fit, ever few)!

Remember me with lilacs & muenster - as I, in turn, behold your image in the ancient cheese tray, mio companero!

- Fragrantly,
your Agatha T.