You know, when this typewriter came into my possession through a merchant in Cairo, close to a year ago, it hadn’t occurred to me that at some point it would be used for this. Of course, I hadn’t planned to leave it somewhat accidentally in your garage, either... It’s an admittedly stubborn habit of mine—well, a natural habit of humans; but in application with my particular cognitive abilities, it proves to be an additional frustration. The scotoma phenomenon. Blind spots, as you might know it. An unconscious bias of the mind in various fields of perception. Highly efficient, exercised in the most general senses; an estimated 97.4% of information processed by the average human mind is facilitated near-autonomously as a measure for energy conservation. Systematic, as well, and dangerously so; not all foundations for these biases are created equal—a careless melting pot of oft-tainted past, personal, cultural experience, learned behaviors, and conditional/conditioned ‘knowledge.’ And that’s just considering the phenomenon in regard to the average person.
I’m not the average person. You’ve already formed this conclusion, surely. For starters, the average person doesn’t invade another’s body for a week every month; though, even beyond that inconvenient detail, I’m afflicted, if you will, by the rare condition of being supremely …different. The less you know of the specifics, the better for us all, I assure you. What I will tell you is this: When a blind spot occurs in my cognitive field of perception, I have something of a peculiar inability to trace the origin of the bias. Tragic, if you were to consider how transparently my mind’s processes ordinarily appear to me… But we have neither the time nor the shared fluency of rhetoric to delve much further into that. In regard to the current point at hand, and in the most digestible terms: I’m not certain why I made the mistake of having left this typewriter in your garage.
Some would argue that ‘accidents’ are humanly unavoidable. However, if you’ve seen the kinds of accidents I’ve seen men continually make—the kinds of accidents that result, too conveniently, in the strategic advancements required to serve the interest of the so-called careless party—you might better understand my reluctance to circumscribe my philosophies to the nature of the ‘pure accident.’
I do believe, though, that mistakes are an indispensable requisite in the human condition. And as much as I’m unable to consign verifiable reasons to the currently known handful of mistakes that I’ve made in approaching you and our mutual concerns regarding this fellow that—with great misfortune and regret—I so happen to inhabit, I am willing to presume that these mistakes were indeed made for reasons. Whether we’re to trust the basis of those reasons is sadly quite a distinct issue of its own, but I think we can both agree that the impasse we’ve thus far arrived at benefits no one.
If you’ve read to this point without having incinerated this letter in the kitchen sink, rest assured that you’ll have your chance to do so fairly soon. For nearly a year and a half, I’ve been ‘administrating,’ so to speak, the persistent blind spots you may have noticed in this boy’s fields of internal and external vision. From his reactions to your— to Misty’s cybernetic prosthesis— along with your responses, I’ll presume it’s been a somewhat frustrating setback to your personal inclinations. Incomparable, I’m sure, but relatively speaking, it’s been a burden upon my conscience as well. Rather, Misty’s, more so, though that translates to about the same. Which is all to say that it would be much advised for you to leave no trace of this letter’s brief existence. I’ve taken excessive and deliberate care to maintain his non-involvement in all matters pertaining to my presence here, in your world and in his physical body, and as little reason as we may have to trust each other, I am trusting you to trust me on this.
More can be explained.
There’s a key I’ve left in that box of Polaroids you and he have kept rather responsibly hidden. I didn’t peruse beyond what was evident at a glance, and neither am I in any position to judge; do try to afford me the same measure of privacy should you choose to proceed. The apartment below yours is where Misty and I have plans to reside in when we’re here. Without any intended shock or offense, the hospitality of your lodgings has been appreciated; we’d simply like to accrue some sense of belongings of our own. Pardon the dust and the spaciousness. Given the amount of time that we allowed the two of you to purloin this past week, we haven’t had the chance to tidy up. I haven’t had the chance to test this theory either, ergo all this may be for naught and I’m sending you on a wild goose chase; but if this works, you’ll get your answers sooner rather than later. Look for a satchel. If it’s where I left it, I’m confident that the device within it will be available to you as well. If one or the other isn’t present, we’ll have to speak again in three weeks.
Burn this letter.