I read your last letter with no small alarm. It sounds like you're fixing to do yourself harm. I know that you feel like you've got nothing left, like your time has run out, you're abandoned, bereft of all hope, that you've been forced to bear it in silence, your family's scorn, their indifference, their violence.
I take it the jubjub bird failed to arrive. So how, my dear friend, will we keep you alive? I'd recommend exercise, plenty of fruit, but finally cede that such bromides are moot. Samsa, I need you to martial your will. There isn't a purgative, poultice or pill or anything else on the pharmacy shelf that will make you so healthy as much as yourself.
You think your new body has made you a bother. You hold yourself guilty while blameless your father. Gregor, we'd all die if physical beauty was needed for others to render their duty.
Ever since our first letter, I've had this strange notion that I'd make you better, ignoring the ocean that makes up the distance that renders you Seussless. But despite my persistence, I've been worse than useless. I'm astonished at times when I think of the past, of my thousands of rhymes, of how life is so vast. I'm left, then, to wonder how anyone gleans a purpose or sense of what anything means.
It's not ours for the knowing. It's meaning abstruse. We both best be going.
Your loving friend, Seuss.
