It occurred to me the other day, reading you, what an absolutely mesmerizing cadence you have in your writing. Jules has it too and McEnnis. There’s a sequence in Innaritu’s Revenant where the breathing is rhythmic with the drums, the score is enthralling. Like vintage Phil Collins.

I read you like that, I suck in my breath with subject and exhale with the verb. It’s alive, the way you write. I want that. To be able to harness the horse of anothers mind, to make that seemly effortless switch of changing the hands at the reins that the animal does not whimper. Frenzied, it gallops along, only to discover at the precipice that the rider is a mad man bent on death!

This is blasphemous, yours is not literature. When the subject warrants it, even art loses justification. I read your writing and theirs — the boys, like an alien. It’s marvelous I think to myself what you men do to and with each other. It’s tragic, and marvelous.

Thank you.