61. Diary/Journal
I am bothered lately with this strange wanting for you, he confides in one of his letters. I have found images of you in the most abstract of senses—for instance, in a beam of light caught by a chain I see your sternly coiled hair and remember a time when you bound me more greatly to my purpose. (Here there is a sequence of scribbled out words, too dark to read, and then his flowing script resurfaces.)
I think of you often, his letter concludes, lamely. I remain faithfully yours and, as always, I wish you happiness.
(These lines are perhaps not completely true, and in fact read as if he has copied them from some other author's work; without a doubt, however, the recipient of these letters will understand.)
In the end, he does not sign his name and he does not send the letter; instead, he adds it to the teetering stack of notes that he has collected on the balancing of equations and the lesser properties of Hydrogen.
We have something more than mere chemistry, he scrawls on the back of the envelope, and watches with blank eyes as the entire paper stack falls down about him like a house of cards.