gratuitous image
6 April 1996


Sabine writes to me in a strange code. It takes me an hour to decipher one of her letters, and even then I still can't understand a few words. Is that sequence of regular loops supposed to be "mushroom," "mesmerize," "meditation," or something completely different?

I think Sabine is a secret agent. She's smart and beautiful and enigmatic like all the spies in all the films. I think her lipstick tube is actually a combination camera/radio/stiletto; it may even have a cyanide capsule inside as well for those sticky situations.

I fear I may have inadvertently led Sabine to conclude that I too am a secret agent. Perhaps after a few glasses of red wine I added too many embellishments to my story about being captured by the Soviet Army and held prisoner in a Siberian army base. Why would she write in code if she didn't think I could speak spy?

Sabine's letters are nevertheless always a pleasure. It's just like Giorgio de Chirico said: "Et quid amabo misi quod ænigma est?"

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©1996 David Glenn Rinehart