Sundown. My latest letter is complete: I post it to the madman's house of black. His call for correspondence thus fulfilled, White ink on parchment fuligin comes back. The auto-philosophe greets me with cheer. He's scoured my tubes; he's scanned my public face. "Your site's delightful" — so reads his review. No lesser turbo-hermit has such grace. I swear I see him through Eye Number Three: Thin fingers, stained with e-ink, sweep the keys That lock him to the ever-growing Book Of Life, which he attends on hands and knees. From ones and nones, h0p3 builds a prophesy, And from his labors may he never tire. In 2020, Montaigne essays on. His precomputed smile floats down the wire.