In the land of the living
Dear Francis,
I'm afraid I haven't got much time at the present, and so I must keep this epistolary brief. This letter's singular purpose is to allay what I imagine is your growing—and, if I'm being honest, pretty reasonable—suspicion that I am, in fact, dead.
Forsooth! Nothing could be further from the truth. I remain in the land of the living, and feel in rather fine fettle. So, there's that. I've been preoccupied with the business of life, as it were, and haven't had half a minute to send you an update.
My deepest apologies. I truly hope you are in good health and buoyant spirits, and hope to hear from you very soon (I am not, I hasten to add, exhorting you to write back to me with alacrity—that would expose me to charges of rank hypocrisy).
I promise to write with a great deal more regularity than I have done the last few months. I've been cogitating on many things, including post-liberalism and the historiography of Ulysses S. Grant, and would welcome—nay, solicit!—your thoughts.
As Sir Walter Scott once wrote, "To all, to each, a fair good-night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light."
Goodnight, Francis, and may we be reunited soon.
With affection,
SEW