Who needs these letters?

Perhaps, before I start writing letters without an address, I should explain why I'm doing this at all. Explain it to myself, mostly—no one else

A wise person recently described this situation very succinctly: "There's absolutely no one left to talk to." It's a simple and clear image: I'm standing in the middle of a huge crowd of people in a strange state of agitation. They're waving flags, shouting slogans, delivering speeches—right-wing, left-wing, liberal, conservative—it doesn't matter. All of them have ceased to exist as conversational partners. Having been irradiated by propaganda, they've lost the ability to think independently and critically, and they've started speaking in clichés and ideological constructs.

Almost no one remains who has escaped this terrible mutation, people with whom one could discuss what's happening based on pure logic and sober reasoning. It's for them that I'm writing these notes, hoping that someday someone among them will find them. And understand. It's like the messages that shipwreck survivors threw into the ocean in sealed bottles. They didn't know who would read them, or whether anyone would read them at all. But hope is an important feeling. Hope that we are not mutants, but simply the last real humans, as Richard Morgan wrote in Thirteen 

arbon